Datasets:

shipWr3ck

/

narrativeqa_demonstrations

like 0

CREDITS as we see a beautiful montage of futuristic medical technology. Through a microscope we see cells multiplying and gene strands exponentially increasing with the vibrancy of exploding flowers. We see laser splicing and biological manipulation on the molecular level. CREDITS continue as we fade to... We can't make out the words but there is no doubt what they are talking about. The three year old HUMAN BOY who stands before them. The boy is alone and frightened, lost in the sweeping grandeur of the massive chamber. CREDITS continue as we fade to... On a stark, desert planet with monolithic mountains and harsh crags shooting upward. The only light in this dark netherworld comes from the flames that accompany the hellish mining operations everywhere around us. The human boy gazes over this desolate vista and then he looks up for a moment... at the stars. Then a tall figure leads him firmly into one of the mines. The boy seems to disappear into this flaming crucible. CREDITS end as we go to... We slowly move down toward the most imposing building of the city. The Romulan Senate chamber. And then her eyes carefully cross the chamber to... PRAETOR HIREN -- the head of the Romulan government -- presiding over the Senate from a throne-like chair. He is a capable politician in his 50s. Senator Tal'Aura grunts slightly at the word "negotiations." Praetor Hiren glances to her. The Praetor nods. Tal'Aura stands and leaves the chamber... but she had left something behind on her desk. A small, silver box with unusual etchings on the surface. The discussion continues as we focus on the silver box... The Senator at the desk next to Tal'Aura's glances over. The silver box is moving. The Senator carefully uncorks the treasured bottle as: He pours two glasses of the wine, then raises his glass, a toast. Picard carefully takes a tiny sip, savors the flavor, finally swallows. Enjoys it. Ahhh. Data mimics Picard. Taking a tiny sip, savoring the flavor and finally swallowing. Ahhh. He takes another sip of wine. A beat. A beat. Data thinks about it. COMMANDER DONATRA and COMMANDER SURAN stride through the corridor. Suran is an elder Romulan officer, respected and tenacious. Donatra -- a key figure in this story so pay close attention to her -- is a mature, beautiful woman... not without a dry sense of humor. A voice, from the shadows: Donatra and Suran stop. And the VICEROY steps from the shadows... He is a terrifying sight A powerful, monstrous alien creature; a tall, ashen-skinned ectomorph who bears a disturbing resemblance to the original Nosferatu. He is vampiric and lethal. He is a Reman. He leads them along the corridor. And then we see him... SHINZON! He is a dynamic young human in his twenties. Very handsome with pale, almost white skin and shining, golden hair. He wears a striking Reman military uniform. He stands in the center of the eerily deserted chamber. The entire floor is a large star chart. Senator Tal'Aura (the female Senator who planted the weapon in the Senate chamber earlier) and two other ROMULAN COMMANDERS sit. Cadres of Shinzon's fearsome REMAN WARRIORS stand around the chamber. They are his sinister children of the night. Even more chilling now in the flickering torch light. It's like something out of Tim Burton. Donatra and Suran enter the chamber with Shinzon's Viceroy. Shinzon looks at her. A quick beat. Shinzon decides his golden hair. The crew cannot see him clearly in the dim light but it is evident he is human. Assuming that he was Reman, they're surprised by this realization. Shinzon just stares at Picard through the darkness for a moment. Data scans him with a tricorder as: Shinzon laughs, maniacally. Shinzon does not answer. He is staring deeply at Deanna, moans softly. He slowly moves toward her, still hidden in the shadows. Shinzon moves even closer to Deanna, not taking his eyes from her. Shinzon continues to stare at Deanna. It is strangely seductive. Almost disquieting in its intensity. Deanna handles it with grace, her level gaze never leaving his. Picard and the others are stunned. Lights shoot up around the room. For the first time the crew can see Shinzon clearly. Picard actually gasps when he sees Shinzon's face. The rest of the crew doesn't understand his reaction. Picard watches him carefully. Wary and strangely intense. The crew is dumbfounded at Picard's unusual reaction. He steps toward Picard who holds his ground. Picard stares at him with a mixture of realization and curiosity. It is as if Picard is looking into a strange, remembered mirror: Shinzon's face is nearly identical to his at that age. The crew is utterly confused. Their confusion turns to outright shock when Shinzon calmly pulls out a Reman knife and cuts his arm, drawing a little blood. He hands the knife to Data. Picard touches his communicator pin: They dematerialize, the shimmering glow illuminating Shinzon's features. Picard's eyes never leave Shinzon as the transporter effect ripples around him. A beat as the confirmation sinks in. He goes, Deanna following. Riker tosses a padd on the desk. Rubs his eyes. at him, grim. An Engineer activates a transporter and the B-9 materializes! Reman engineers go to the B-9 and open the panel in his neck, begin connecting computer conduits to the extra memory port we saw earlier. (Note: Although the audience will not know it yet, this is actually Data pretending to be the B-9.) Shinzon goes to a replicator unit and orders: A cup of tea appears. He takes it and sips as he watches his Engineers connecting the conduits to the B-9. She looks at Picard, tears in her eyes. Riker takes her hand. But before the words are out of his mouth... he begins to dematerialize! But Picard is gone. Beyond the security force field a ghoulish medical apparatus is being prepared. A metal chair with laser scalpels, IV tubes and hyposprays connected to it. Reman doctors work over the mysterious chair. Shinzon enters with the B-9 following. Shinzon stands on the other side of the force field. Picard notices something immediately. Tiny veins are now visible on Shinzon's face; the faintest sign of an intricate spider-web pattern of pale blue veins. He nods to a guard. The guard deactivates the force field. A Reman doctor enters and raises a hypospray toward Picard. The Doctor takes a quick sample of Picard's blood as Picard glances to the B-9. The Reman doctor leaves the cell. The force field is reactivated. The doctor goes to the mysterious medical apparatus and analyzes Picard's blood. As: The B-9 obediently leaves the room as: Shinzon looks at him deeply. He turns to go. Shinzon turns back to him. A beat. Picard gazes at him evenly. Picard's probing gaze makes Shinzon a bit uneasy. He glances to the ghoulish medical preparations. Geordi Looks up her. She smiles and goes to him. She pulls him up. They kiss deeply. She pulls him across the room and they fall into the bed. It is passionate, erotic. Her arms undulate around him sensually... her fingers snake through his hair, but something is wrong. Riker's hair is now blond. She starts back, her eyes growing wide. Riker is gone. She is now embracing Shinzon! He caresses her face... He kisses her neck -- but when he raises his head again. It is the monstrous Viceroy! Holding her. Caressing her. She is frozen in horror. But is it the Viceroy at all? Shinzon's voice seems to come from the Viceroy's lips: And then it is Shinzon again, kissing her: She pushes him away... It is Riker. She stares at him, then clings to him desperately. Commander Suran is angry, pacing. Shinzon stands. His Viceroy lurks in a corner. A tense beat. Shinzon regains his composure. Suran and the others go. Donatra turns just as she is leaving the chamber, she sees the Viceroy going to Shinzon. And then do something odd. The Viceroy puts his hand on Shinzon's chest, leans very close and talks to him quietly. This is an ancient form of Reman telepathic medical diagnosis. This strange sight perplexes Donatra. The doors close, blocking her view... Then, as if a switch was thrown, he moves. He quickly rises and goes to a computer console. He efficiently starts punching in commands at an amazing velocity. Picard pours a glass of Romulan ale. A beat. They look at each other. A beat. He glances to the Romulan crest on the wall. Picard is impressed with Shinzon's quiet

What is the Scimitar?

A warship

carefully uncorks the treasured bottle as: He pours two glasses of the wine, then raises his glass, a toast. Picard carefully takes a tiny sip, savors the flavor, finally swallows. Enjoys it. Ahhh. Data mimics Picard. Taking a tiny sip, savoring the flavor and finally swallowing. Ahhh. He takes another sip of wine. A beat. A beat. Data thinks about it. COMMANDER DONATRA and COMMANDER SURAN stride through the corridor. Suran is an elder Romulan officer, respected and tenacious. Donatra -- a key figure in this story so pay close attention to her -- is a mature, beautiful woman... not without a dry sense of humor. A voice, from the shadows: Donatra and Suran stop. And the VICEROY steps from the shadows... He is a terrifying sight A powerful, monstrous alien creature; a tall, ashen-skinned ectomorph who bears a disturbing resemblance to the original Nosferatu. He is vampiric and lethal. He is a Reman. He leads them along the corridor. And then we see him... SHINZON! He is a dynamic young human in his twenties. Very handsome with pale, almost white skin and shining, golden hair. He wears a striking Reman military uniform. He stands in the center of the eerily deserted chamber. The entire floor is a large star chart. Senator Tal'Aura (the female Senator who planted the weapon in the Senate chamber earlier) and two other ROMULAN COMMANDERS sit. Cadres of Shinzon's fearsome REMAN WARRIORS stand around the chamber. They are his sinister children of the night. Even more chilling now in the flickering torch light. It's like something out of Tim Burton. Donatra and Suran enter the chamber with Shinzon's Viceroy. Shinzon looks at her. A quick beat. Shinzon decides his golden hair. The crew cannot see him clearly in the dim light but it is evident he is human. Assuming that he was Reman, they're surprised by this realization. Shinzon just stares at Picard through the darkness for a moment. Data scans him with a tricorder as: Shinzon laughs, maniacally. Shinzon does not answer. He is staring deeply at Deanna, moans softly. He slowly moves toward her, still hidden in the shadows. Shinzon moves even closer to Deanna, not taking his eyes from her. Shinzon continues to stare at Deanna. It is strangely seductive. Almost disquieting in its intensity. Deanna handles it with grace, her level gaze never leaving his. Picard and the others are stunned. Lights shoot up around the room. For the first time the crew can see Shinzon clearly. Picard actually gasps when he sees Shinzon's face. The rest of the crew doesn't understand his reaction. Picard watches him carefully. Wary and strangely intense. The crew is dumbfounded at Picard's unusual reaction. He steps toward Picard who holds his ground. Picard stares at him with a mixture of realization and curiosity. It is as if Picard is looking into a strange, remembered mirror: Shinzon's face is nearly identical to his at that age. The crew is utterly confused. Their confusion turns to outright shock when Shinzon calmly pulls out a Reman knife and cuts his arm, drawing a little blood. He hands the knife to Data. Picard touches his communicator pin: They dematerialize, the shimmering glow illuminating Shinzon's features. Picard's eyes never leave Shinzon as the transporter effect ripples around him. A beat as the confirmation sinks in. He goes, Deanna following. Riker tosses a padd on the desk. Rubs his eyes. Data leads the B-9 to a table. Data instructs him to sit. The B-9 sits and stares forward placidly. Data shows him how use a napkin. A note of concern passes over Deanna's face as she watches Data and the B-9. There is something strangely poignant in the twin androids. One a bundle of curiosity and intelligence; the other somewhat like a slow, simple child. A cup of tea appears. He takes it as the door chime sounds. He sits at his desk She sits across from him. A quiet beat. They are interrupted by a comm signal: She goes. Picard activates his desktop viewscreen. ADMIRAL KATHRYN JANEWAY appears on Picard's monitor. Janeway is the former captain of Voyager. Her new rank fits her well, she has lost none of her dry humor and down-to-earth charm which made her a household name and beloved cult figure. The transmission ends. Picard sits for a moment, intrigued. Then he goes to the bridge The crew is shocked. Various grainy and unclear new images appear to illustrate Data's words: Very obscure images of Remans appear, the crew can barely make out the monstrous figures: Picard considers this. The images end. There are no images of Shinzon. The meeting breaks up. We pull back and discover that computer conduits connect the B-9's head to Data's head. Geordi monitors the connection. Geordi completes his work Geordi removes the computer connections from between their heads. He carefully closes the panel in Data's head as: He looks blankly at the console lights. Data glances to Geordi. Data has been studying some circuitry in the B-9's neck. Data looks at the B-9 with a sort of sadness. Data stands. The B-9 stands to follow. The watches, amazed, as the box begins to slowly fold open. Then "legs" appear. The box unfolds like a spider, standing on its legs. Then it is still for a moment. The Senator looks at it, puzzled. Suddenly -- a bright beam of green light shoots up from the spider -- the Senators are stunned -- the beam shoots to the high domed ceiling of the chamber and then cascades around the interior of the room, enveloping everything in a glowing shroud of green energy. In a way, it is bizarrely beautiful. And then just as suddenly the light disappears. A moment of silence. The Praetor and Senators are baffled. A plant behind the Praetor begins to shrivel... The Praetor stops suddenly -- as the flesh begins to melt from his face. Every bit of organic matter in the chamber decays. Flesh melts from bones while the Senators scream in agony. Every living thing in the chamber is dead within ten seconds. A stunning moment of silence as we take in the carnage. Then a transporter effect ripples around the spider-weapon. It disappears. And the Romulan Senate is no more. We fade to... His face is resolute and set. Even stern. His white dress uniform is buttoned tightly to the neck. He looks at us evenly and then utters the word that has been the watch cry for his entire life as a Starfleet officer. He lets the word resonate and then continues. Uproarious laughter. We pull back to reveal the wedding reception of WILL RIKER and DEANNA TROI. The Enterprise CREW is gathered with invited GUESTS, some from other "Star Trek" series. Riker and Deanna sit at the center of a long table. Deanna nods at him, grim. An Engineer activates a transporter and the B-9 materializes! Reman engineers go to the B-9 and open the panel in his neck, begin connecting computer conduits to the extra memory port we saw earlier. (Note: Although the audience will not know it yet, this is actually Data pretending to be the B-9.) Shinzon goes to a replicator unit and orders: A cup of tea appears. He takes it and sips as he watches his Engineers connecting the conduits to the B-9. She looks at Picard, tears in her eyes. Riker takes her hand. But before the words are out of his mouth... he begins to dematerialize! But Picard is gone. Beyond the security force field a ghoulish medical apparatus is being prepared. A metal chair with laser scalpels, IV tubes and hyposprays connected to it. Reman doctors work over the mysterious chair. Shinzon enters with the B-9 following. Shinzon stands on the other side of the force field. Picard notices something immediately. Tiny veins are now visible on Shinzon's face; the faintest sign of an intricate spider-web pattern of pale blue veins. He nods to a guard. The guard deactivates the force field. A Reman doctor enters and raises a hypospray toward Picard. The Doctor takes a quick sample of Picard's blood as Picard glances to the B-9. The Reman doctor leaves the cell. The force field is reactivated. The doctor goes to the mysterious medical apparatus and analyzes Picard's blood. As: The B-9 obediently leaves the room as: Shinzon looks at him deeply. He turns to go. Shinzon turns back to him. A beat. Picard gazes at him evenly. Picard's probing gaze makes Shinzon a bit uneasy. He glances to the ghoulish medical preparations. Geordi

Why does Shinzon activate the Thalaron weapon?

To destroy both the Scimitar and the Enterprise

carefully uncorks the treasured bottle as: He pours two glasses of the wine, then raises his glass, a toast. Picard carefully takes a tiny sip, savors the flavor, finally swallows. Enjoys it. Ahhh. Data mimics Picard. Taking a tiny sip, savoring the flavor and finally swallowing. Ahhh. He takes another sip of wine. A beat. A beat. Data thinks about it. COMMANDER DONATRA and COMMANDER SURAN stride through the corridor. Suran is an elder Romulan officer, respected and tenacious. Donatra -- a key figure in this story so pay close attention to her -- is a mature, beautiful woman... not without a dry sense of humor. A voice, from the shadows: Donatra and Suran stop. And the VICEROY steps from the shadows... He is a terrifying sight A powerful, monstrous alien creature; a tall, ashen-skinned ectomorph who bears a disturbing resemblance to the original Nosferatu. He is vampiric and lethal. He is a Reman. He leads them along the corridor. And then we see him... SHINZON! He is a dynamic young human in his twenties. Very handsome with pale, almost white skin and shining, golden hair. He wears a striking Reman military uniform. He stands in the center of the eerily deserted chamber. The entire floor is a large star chart. Senator Tal'Aura (the female Senator who planted the weapon in the Senate chamber earlier) and two other ROMULAN COMMANDERS sit. Cadres of Shinzon's fearsome REMAN WARRIORS stand around the chamber. They are his sinister children of the night. Even more chilling now in the flickering torch light. It's like something out of Tim Burton. Donatra and Suran enter the chamber with Shinzon's Viceroy. Shinzon looks at her. A quick beat. Shinzon decides his golden hair. The crew cannot see him clearly in the dim light but it is evident he is human. Assuming that he was Reman, they're surprised by this realization. Shinzon just stares at Picard through the darkness for a moment. Data scans him with a tricorder as: Shinzon laughs, maniacally. Shinzon does not answer. He is staring deeply at Deanna, moans softly. He slowly moves toward her, still hidden in the shadows. Shinzon moves even closer to Deanna, not taking his eyes from her. Shinzon continues to stare at Deanna. It is strangely seductive. Almost disquieting in its intensity. Deanna handles it with grace, her level gaze never leaving his. Picard and the others are stunned. Lights shoot up around the room. For the first time the crew can see Shinzon clearly. Picard actually gasps when he sees Shinzon's face. The rest of the crew doesn't understand his reaction. Picard watches him carefully. Wary and strangely intense. The crew is dumbfounded at Picard's unusual reaction. He steps toward Picard who holds his ground. Picard stares at him with a mixture of realization and curiosity. It is as if Picard is looking into a strange, remembered mirror: Shinzon's face is nearly identical to his at that age. The crew is utterly confused. Their confusion turns to outright shock when Shinzon calmly pulls out a Reman knife and cuts his arm, drawing a little blood. He hands the knife to Data. Picard touches his communicator pin: They dematerialize, the shimmering glow illuminating Shinzon's features. Picard's eyes never leave Shinzon as the transporter effect ripples around him. A beat as the confirmation sinks in. He goes, Deanna following. Riker tosses a padd on the desk. Rubs his eyes. at him, grim. An Engineer activates a transporter and the B-9 materializes! Reman engineers go to the B-9 and open the panel in his neck, begin connecting computer conduits to the extra memory port we saw earlier. (Note: Although the audience will not know it yet, this is actually Data pretending to be the B-9.) Shinzon goes to a replicator unit and orders: A cup of tea appears. He takes it and sips as he watches his Engineers connecting the conduits to the B-9. She looks at Picard, tears in her eyes. Riker takes her hand. But before the words are out of his mouth... he begins to dematerialize! But Picard is gone. Beyond the security force field a ghoulish medical apparatus is being prepared. A metal chair with laser scalpels, IV tubes and hyposprays connected to it. Reman doctors work over the mysterious chair. Shinzon enters with the B-9 following. Shinzon stands on the other side of the force field. Picard notices something immediately. Tiny veins are now visible on Shinzon's face; the faintest sign of an intricate spider-web pattern of pale blue veins. He nods to a guard. The guard deactivates the force field. A Reman doctor enters and raises a hypospray toward Picard. The Doctor takes a quick sample of Picard's blood as Picard glances to the B-9. The Reman doctor leaves the cell. The force field is reactivated. The doctor goes to the mysterious medical apparatus and analyzes Picard's blood. As: The B-9 obediently leaves the room as: Shinzon looks at him deeply. He turns to go. Shinzon turns back to him. A beat. Picard gazes at him evenly. Picard's probing gaze makes Shinzon a bit uneasy. He glances to the ghoulish medical preparations. Geordi He sees her. Commander Madden prepares himself. Commander Madden enters quickly -- he did not use the door chime so Picard is surprised. Picard stands, they shake hands as: Picard heads toward the door, carrying a few padds. Picard goes to the bridge, Madden following... Picard goes to them: He settles into his new command chair. Looks around for a beat at his new bridge crew. Fresh-faced kids. A new generation to teach and nurture. He smiles. Worf and Geordi exchange a look, surprised. Picard presses a button on the chair and -- zip -- metal restraints fly into position around his waist and shoulders. Seatbelts! Picard is surprised. Then Picard smiles. He presses the button again and the restraints zip back into the body of the chair. He is delighted. He turns to Madden: Madden sits in the First Officer's chair, Picard shares a padd with him. And we cut to -- We slowly pull back from Picard and the Enterprise. As we hear the B-9's soft tones. Gentle. Hopeful. We revolve away from the Enterprise and Earth toward the stars. Then ZOOM forward into the cosmos as the rousing "Next Generation" theme explodes over END CREDITS. Data leads the B-9 to a table. Data instructs him to sit. The B-9 sits and stares forward placidly. Data shows him how use a napkin. A note of concern passes over Deanna's face as she watches Data and the B-9. There is something strangely poignant in the twin androids. One a bundle of curiosity and intelligence; the other somewhat like a slow, simple child. A cup of tea appears. He takes it as the door chime sounds. He sits at his desk She sits across from him. A quiet beat. They are interrupted by a comm signal: She goes. Picard activates his desktop viewscreen. ADMIRAL KATHRYN JANEWAY appears on Picard's monitor. Janeway is the former captain of Voyager. Her new rank fits her well, she has lost none of her dry humor and down-to-earth charm which made her a household name and beloved cult figure. The transmission ends. Picard sits for a moment, intrigued. Then he goes to the bridge The crew is shocked. Various grainy and unclear new images appear to illustrate Data's words: Very obscure images of Remans appear, the crew can barely make out the monstrous figures: Picard considers this. The images end. There are no images of Shinzon. The meeting breaks up. We pull back and discover that computer conduits connect the B-9's head to Data's head. Geordi monitors the connection. Geordi completes his work Geordi removes the computer connections from between their heads. He carefully closes the panel in Data's head as: He looks blankly at the console lights. Data glances to Geordi. Data has been studying some circuitry in the B-9's neck. Data looks at the B-9 with a sort of sadness. Data stands. The B-9 stands to follow. The

How does Shinzon die?

Impaled on a piece of metal

He sees her. Commander Madden prepares himself. Commander Madden enters quickly -- he did not use the door chime so Picard is surprised. Picard stands, they shake hands as: Picard heads toward the door, carrying a few padds. Picard goes to the bridge, Madden following... Picard goes to them: He settles into his new command chair. Looks around for a beat at his new bridge crew. Fresh-faced kids. A new generation to teach and nurture. He smiles. Worf and Geordi exchange a look, surprised. Picard presses a button on the chair and -- zip -- metal restraints fly into position around his waist and shoulders. Seatbelts! Picard is surprised. Then Picard smiles. He presses the button again and the restraints zip back into the body of the chair. He is delighted. He turns to Madden: Madden sits in the First Officer's chair, Picard shares a padd with him. And we cut to -- We slowly pull back from Picard and the Enterprise. As we hear the B-9's soft tones. Gentle. Hopeful. We revolve away from the Enterprise and Earth toward the stars. Then ZOOM forward into the cosmos as the rousing "Next Generation" theme explodes over END CREDITS. his golden hair. The crew cannot see him clearly in the dim light but it is evident he is human. Assuming that he was Reman, they're surprised by this realization. Shinzon just stares at Picard through the darkness for a moment. Data scans him with a tricorder as: Shinzon laughs, maniacally. Shinzon does not answer. He is staring deeply at Deanna, moans softly. He slowly moves toward her, still hidden in the shadows. Shinzon moves even closer to Deanna, not taking his eyes from her. Shinzon continues to stare at Deanna. It is strangely seductive. Almost disquieting in its intensity. Deanna handles it with grace, her level gaze never leaving his. Picard and the others are stunned. Lights shoot up around the room. For the first time the crew can see Shinzon clearly. Picard actually gasps when he sees Shinzon's face. The rest of the crew doesn't understand his reaction. Picard watches him carefully. Wary and strangely intense. The crew is dumbfounded at Picard's unusual reaction. He steps toward Picard who holds his ground. Picard stares at him with a mixture of realization and curiosity. It is as if Picard is looking into a strange, remembered mirror: Shinzon's face is nearly identical to his at that age. The crew is utterly confused. Their confusion turns to outright shock when Shinzon calmly pulls out a Reman knife and cuts his arm, drawing a little blood. He hands the knife to Data. Picard touches his communicator pin: They dematerialize, the shimmering glow illuminating Shinzon's features. Picard's eyes never leave Shinzon as the transporter effect ripples around him. A beat as the confirmation sinks in. He goes, Deanna following. Riker tosses a padd on the desk. Rubs his eyes. Data leads the B-9 to a table. Data instructs him to sit. The B-9 sits and stares forward placidly. Data shows him how use a napkin. A note of concern passes over Deanna's face as she watches Data and the B-9. There is something strangely poignant in the twin androids. One a bundle of curiosity and intelligence; the other somewhat like a slow, simple child. A cup of tea appears. He takes it as the door chime sounds. He sits at his desk She sits across from him. A quiet beat. They are interrupted by a comm signal: She goes. Picard activates his desktop viewscreen. ADMIRAL KATHRYN JANEWAY appears on Picard's monitor. Janeway is the former captain of Voyager. Her new rank fits her well, she has lost none of her dry humor and down-to-earth charm which made her a household name and beloved cult figure. The transmission ends. Picard sits for a moment, intrigued. Then he goes to the bridge The crew is shocked. Various grainy and unclear new images appear to illustrate Data's words: Very obscure images of Remans appear, the crew can barely make out the monstrous figures: Picard considers this. The images end. There are no images of Shinzon. The meeting breaks up. We pull back and discover that computer conduits connect the B-9's head to Data's head. Geordi monitors the connection. Geordi completes his work Geordi removes the computer connections from between their heads. He carefully closes the panel in Data's head as: He looks blankly at the console lights. Data glances to Geordi. Data has been studying some circuitry in the B-9's neck. Data looks at the B-9 with a sort of sadness. Data stands. The B-9 stands to follow. The at him, grim. An Engineer activates a transporter and the B-9 materializes! Reman engineers go to the B-9 and open the panel in his neck, begin connecting computer conduits to the extra memory port we saw earlier. (Note: Although the audience will not know it yet, this is actually Data pretending to be the B-9.) Shinzon goes to a replicator unit and orders: A cup of tea appears. He takes it and sips as he watches his Engineers connecting the conduits to the B-9. She looks at Picard, tears in her eyes. Riker takes her hand. But before the words are out of his mouth... he begins to dematerialize! But Picard is gone. Beyond the security force field a ghoulish medical apparatus is being prepared. A metal chair with laser scalpels, IV tubes and hyposprays connected to it. Reman doctors work over the mysterious chair. Shinzon enters with the B-9 following. Shinzon stands on the other side of the force field. Picard notices something immediately. Tiny veins are now visible on Shinzon's face; the faintest sign of an intricate spider-web pattern of pale blue veins. He nods to a guard. The guard deactivates the force field. A Reman doctor enters and raises a hypospray toward Picard. The Doctor takes a quick sample of Picard's blood as Picard glances to the B-9. The Reman doctor leaves the cell. The force field is reactivated. The doctor goes to the mysterious medical apparatus and analyzes Picard's blood. As: The B-9 obediently leaves the room as: Shinzon looks at him deeply. He turns to go. Shinzon turns back to him. A beat. Picard gazes at him evenly. Picard's probing gaze makes Shinzon a bit uneasy. He glances to the ghoulish medical preparations. Geordi down his uniform tunic exactly as we've seen Picard do a thousand times. They look at her. She turns and stalks out. PlCARD Can anything be done for him? PlCARD How long does he have? Picard considers this. The B-9 has been deactivated, he stands lifeless and immobile. Data gazes deeply into his double's identical features. Then he opens a panel in the B-9's neck and uses a small instrument to activate the android's head. The B-9's eyes spring to life. He looks at Data. A beat. Data gazes at the B-9 deeply. Data reaches forward and deactivates his brother. The B-9's eyes lose the spark of life. He stands, frozen. Data stands before him. A computer display illustrates Geordi's words about the power of Shinzon's weapon. We see a chilling graphic of the Biogenic Pulse beam spreading around a ship, then a whole planet. A beat as he looks at them gravely. Riker knows exactly what Picard is saying: the Enterprise is expendable. Picard stands. Presses a comm button. Crew members assume battle stations. Weapons locker ring open and Security Officers hand out sidearms and phaser rifles. Geordi and his Engineers establish emergency force field around the warp core. Riker and Worf brief officers on tactical plans... Data works at the bridge Science Station, analyzing data on Shinzon's ship. Picard walks through the corridors, he stops to talk with apprehensive young ensign. As we hear: The montage ends as... Dr. Crusher and her medical staff are hard at work. They position anti-grav gurneys and ready medical supplies. Security officers are handing out phasers. Picard watches the grim preparations. Beverly goes to him, bolstering her phaser. He starts to go -- She watches him go. Shinzon shoves him away.

Why does the Enterprise travel to Earth?

For repairs

carefully uncorks the treasured bottle as: He pours two glasses of the wine, then raises his glass, a toast. Picard carefully takes a tiny sip, savors the flavor, finally swallows. Enjoys it. Ahhh. Data mimics Picard. Taking a tiny sip, savoring the flavor and finally swallowing. Ahhh. He takes another sip of wine. A beat. A beat. Data thinks about it. COMMANDER DONATRA and COMMANDER SURAN stride through the corridor. Suran is an elder Romulan officer, respected and tenacious. Donatra -- a key figure in this story so pay close attention to her -- is a mature, beautiful woman... not without a dry sense of humor. A voice, from the shadows: Donatra and Suran stop. And the VICEROY steps from the shadows... He is a terrifying sight A powerful, monstrous alien creature; a tall, ashen-skinned ectomorph who bears a disturbing resemblance to the original Nosferatu. He is vampiric and lethal. He is a Reman. He leads them along the corridor. And then we see him... SHINZON! He is a dynamic young human in his twenties. Very handsome with pale, almost white skin and shining, golden hair. He wears a striking Reman military uniform. He stands in the center of the eerily deserted chamber. The entire floor is a large star chart. Senator Tal'Aura (the female Senator who planted the weapon in the Senate chamber earlier) and two other ROMULAN COMMANDERS sit. Cadres of Shinzon's fearsome REMAN WARRIORS stand around the chamber. They are his sinister children of the night. Even more chilling now in the flickering torch light. It's like something out of Tim Burton. Donatra and Suran enter the chamber with Shinzon's Viceroy. Shinzon looks at her. A quick beat. Shinzon decides his golden hair. The crew cannot see him clearly in the dim light but it is evident he is human. Assuming that he was Reman, they're surprised by this realization. Shinzon just stares at Picard through the darkness for a moment. Data scans him with a tricorder as: Shinzon laughs, maniacally. Shinzon does not answer. He is staring deeply at Deanna, moans softly. He slowly moves toward her, still hidden in the shadows. Shinzon moves even closer to Deanna, not taking his eyes from her. Shinzon continues to stare at Deanna. It is strangely seductive. Almost disquieting in its intensity. Deanna handles it with grace, her level gaze never leaving his. Picard and the others are stunned. Lights shoot up around the room. For the first time the crew can see Shinzon clearly. Picard actually gasps when he sees Shinzon's face. The rest of the crew doesn't understand his reaction. Picard watches him carefully. Wary and strangely intense. The crew is dumbfounded at Picard's unusual reaction. He steps toward Picard who holds his ground. Picard stares at him with a mixture of realization and curiosity. It is as if Picard is looking into a strange, remembered mirror: Shinzon's face is nearly identical to his at that age. The crew is utterly confused. Their confusion turns to outright shock when Shinzon calmly pulls out a Reman knife and cuts his arm, drawing a little blood. He hands the knife to Data. Picard touches his communicator pin: They dematerialize, the shimmering glow illuminating Shinzon's features. Picard's eyes never leave Shinzon as the transporter effect ripples around him. A beat as the confirmation sinks in. He goes, Deanna following. Riker tosses a padd on the desk. Rubs his eyes. watches, amazed, as the box begins to slowly fold open. Then "legs" appear. The box unfolds like a spider, standing on its legs. Then it is still for a moment. The Senator looks at it, puzzled. Suddenly -- a bright beam of green light shoots up from the spider -- the Senators are stunned -- the beam shoots to the high domed ceiling of the chamber and then cascades around the interior of the room, enveloping everything in a glowing shroud of green energy. In a way, it is bizarrely beautiful. And then just as suddenly the light disappears. A moment of silence. The Praetor and Senators are baffled. A plant behind the Praetor begins to shrivel... The Praetor stops suddenly -- as the flesh begins to melt from his face. Every bit of organic matter in the chamber decays. Flesh melts from bones while the Senators scream in agony. Every living thing in the chamber is dead within ten seconds. A stunning moment of silence as we take in the carnage. Then a transporter effect ripples around the spider-weapon. It disappears. And the Romulan Senate is no more. We fade to... His face is resolute and set. Even stern. His white dress uniform is buttoned tightly to the neck. He looks at us evenly and then utters the word that has been the watch cry for his entire life as a Starfleet officer. He lets the word resonate and then continues. Uproarious laughter. We pull back to reveal the wedding reception of WILL RIKER and DEANNA TROI. The Enterprise CREW is gathered with invited GUESTS, some from other "Star Trek" series. Riker and Deanna sit at the center of a long table. Deanna nods Data leads the B-9 to a table. Data instructs him to sit. The B-9 sits and stares forward placidly. Data shows him how use a napkin. A note of concern passes over Deanna's face as she watches Data and the B-9. There is something strangely poignant in the twin androids. One a bundle of curiosity and intelligence; the other somewhat like a slow, simple child. A cup of tea appears. He takes it as the door chime sounds. He sits at his desk She sits across from him. A quiet beat. They are interrupted by a comm signal: She goes. Picard activates his desktop viewscreen. ADMIRAL KATHRYN JANEWAY appears on Picard's monitor. Janeway is the former captain of Voyager. Her new rank fits her well, she has lost none of her dry humor and down-to-earth charm which made her a household name and beloved cult figure. The transmission ends. Picard sits for a moment, intrigued. Then he goes to the bridge The crew is shocked. Various grainy and unclear new images appear to illustrate Data's words: Very obscure images of Remans appear, the crew can barely make out the monstrous figures: Picard considers this. The images end. There are no images of Shinzon. The meeting breaks up. We pull back and discover that computer conduits connect the B-9's head to Data's head. Geordi monitors the connection. Geordi completes his work Geordi removes the computer connections from between their heads. He carefully closes the panel in Data's head as: He looks blankly at the console lights. Data glances to Geordi. Data has been studying some circuitry in the B-9's neck. Data looks at the B-9 with a sort of sadness. Data stands. The B-9 stands to follow. The B-9 sits. Data goes. Geordi watches him go. Worf, at tactical, slowly stretches his neck. Trying to release the tension. It cracks. Deanna jumps a bit. Picard stands and walks to the viewscreen. He gazes at Romulus below and the black infinity of space beyond. They're out there, Waiting. And on the viewscreen. Shinzon's magnificent Reman Warbird, the SCIMITAR, decloaks directly before the Enterprise. Shinzon's vessel combines the clean lines of the traditional Romulan Warbird with unique weaponry and styling. It is huge, easily twice as large as the Enterprise. And it is aggressive. Awesome in its power. And the image on the viewscreen transforms to: Shinzon's Viceroy. He stands on the Scimitar's bridge. The bridge is as unique as the rest of Shinzon's ship. Instead of the usual mechanical clutter, this bridge is designed with an almost Asian simplicity. Like the rest of Reman design, it is spare and elegant. Since the Remans are more comfortable in the darkness, most of the light comes from the three steadily pulsing warp core relays which dramatically soar up through the floor of the bridge. The crew gazes at the bridge and the monstrous features of the viceroy. The transmission ends abruptly. The Scimitar reappears on the viewscreen. Picard, Riker, Deanna, Worf and Data head toward the turbolift, energized now that the endless waiting is over. It is a huge, empty chamber. No furniture. A simple Reman mat on the floor is the only decoration. At the very top of the room there is a large, etched glass dome. It is very dark. They turn when Shinzon speaks from the shadows: Shinzon moves toward them a bit, becoming slightly more illuminated, the low light shining off

How does Dr. Crusher treat Shinzon?

By transfusing Picard's blood

his golden hair. The crew cannot see him clearly in the dim light but it is evident he is human. Assuming that he was Reman, they're surprised by this realization. Shinzon just stares at Picard through the darkness for a moment. Data scans him with a tricorder as: Shinzon laughs, maniacally. Shinzon does not answer. He is staring deeply at Deanna, moans softly. He slowly moves toward her, still hidden in the shadows. Shinzon moves even closer to Deanna, not taking his eyes from her. Shinzon continues to stare at Deanna. It is strangely seductive. Almost disquieting in its intensity. Deanna handles it with grace, her level gaze never leaving his. Picard and the others are stunned. Lights shoot up around the room. For the first time the crew can see Shinzon clearly. Picard actually gasps when he sees Shinzon's face. The rest of the crew doesn't understand his reaction. Picard watches him carefully. Wary and strangely intense. The crew is dumbfounded at Picard's unusual reaction. He steps toward Picard who holds his ground. Picard stares at him with a mixture of realization and curiosity. It is as if Picard is looking into a strange, remembered mirror: Shinzon's face is nearly identical to his at that age. The crew is utterly confused. Their confusion turns to outright shock when Shinzon calmly pulls out a Reman knife and cuts his arm, drawing a little blood. He hands the knife to Data. Picard touches his communicator pin: They dematerialize, the shimmering glow illuminating Shinzon's features. Picard's eyes never leave Shinzon as the transporter effect ripples around him. A beat as the confirmation sinks in. He goes, Deanna following. Riker tosses a padd on the desk. Rubs his eyes. He sees her. Commander Madden prepares himself. Commander Madden enters quickly -- he did not use the door chime so Picard is surprised. Picard stands, they shake hands as: Picard heads toward the door, carrying a few padds. Picard goes to the bridge, Madden following... Picard goes to them: He settles into his new command chair. Looks around for a beat at his new bridge crew. Fresh-faced kids. A new generation to teach and nurture. He smiles. Worf and Geordi exchange a look, surprised. Picard presses a button on the chair and -- zip -- metal restraints fly into position around his waist and shoulders. Seatbelts! Picard is surprised. Then Picard smiles. He presses the button again and the restraints zip back into the body of the chair. He is delighted. He turns to Madden: Madden sits in the First Officer's chair, Picard shares a padd with him. And we cut to -- We slowly pull back from Picard and the Enterprise. As we hear the B-9's soft tones. Gentle. Hopeful. We revolve away from the Enterprise and Earth toward the stars. Then ZOOM forward into the cosmos as the rousing "Next Generation" theme explodes over END CREDITS. her head and coos sympathetically. Hearty, wonderful LAUGHTER! Laughter, laughter, laughter! He looks to Riker and Deanna: He smiles and raises his glass, looks at them deeply. They head off toward Riker and Deanna. Meanwhile, GEORDI LA FORGE sits with his girlfriend. He kisses her gently as WORF comes to them. Poor Worf is still suffering a bit from the bachelor party. He plops down beside them, belches. He groans and rests his head on the table, acts like he's going to heave. Meanwhile, Riker and Deanna are talking to Picard and Beverly. Picard looks at him. Deanna laughs. Then the band stops playing. All turn. DATA stands with the band. Riker shoots an amused glance to Deanna. Conjugation? Data turns to the band leader. The band launches into a jaunty, swing version of the Irving Berlin standard "Blue Skies." The crowd is appreciative. Loves the song. Except Worf, he momentarily raises his head from the table. His heads thumps down again, is about ready to BARF! Meanwhile, Riker is anxious as a kid to join the band: Riker eagerly joins the band. Grabs the trombone and starts jamming with the orchestra. The song really swings. Meanwhile, Geordi leads Leah to the dance floor as well. Beverly goes to Worf. She pulls him to the dance floor as: They dance. Picard and Deanna sweep past them. And we pull up and away as Data continues to sing and the crew dances. It is a joyous celebration of these people. This family. A family we love. As always, the android's placid, neutral expression still somehow manages to convey his wonder, curiosity and idiosyncratic zest for life. Picard arrives with a very old bottle of wine. He clearly enjoys driving. He roars over the desert terrain at breakneck speed, having a hell of a good time. His comrades don't exactly appreciate his free-spirited driving panache. Worf clings on to the mounted phaser canon for dear life. Data steadies himself by grasping onto the rollbar Picard smiles and drives a little faster. They continue on. Before long they can see something on the level desert floor before them. They approach and stop to discover... An android arm. The fingers patiently drumming the ground. Worf climbs from the jeep and carefully approaches the arm. Gingerly picks it up. The arm responds to being picked up, the hand starts feeling around in the air like something from a horror movie. Worf shudders. He returns to the jeep. Quickly sets the arm down in the rear cargo area. Picard starts the jeep in motion. Time passes as they continue on... coming across another arm... a leg... a torso... another leg... various disassembled components of a Data-like android! Worf and Data climb up into the hills in pursuit of the final piece as Picard opens the jeep's hood and checks the engine. Worf pulls his phaser, ready. Then they see it. Data's head. Or the spitting image anyway. Lying inert in the dust before them. Then the head's eyes suddenly pop open. It looks up at them with a sort of blank, childlike wonder. Data gently picks up the head. Looks at it. The two identical faces gaze at each other. Then BLAM! -- a boulder near them explodes. Worf and Data spin to see... A nomadic tribe of desert ALIENS swarming toward them firing primitive plasma weapons -- Data and Worf race back down the canyon, toward the B-9 sits. Data goes. Geordi watches him go. Worf, at tactical, slowly stretches his neck. Trying to release the tension. It cracks. Deanna jumps a bit. Picard stands and walks to the viewscreen. He gazes at Romulus below and the black infinity of space beyond. They're out there, Waiting. And on the viewscreen. Shinzon's magnificent Reman Warbird, the SCIMITAR, decloaks directly before the Enterprise. Shinzon's vessel combines the clean lines of the traditional Romulan Warbird with unique weaponry and styling. It is huge, easily twice as large as the Enterprise. And it is aggressive. Awesome in its power. And the image on the viewscreen transforms to: Shinzon's Viceroy. He stands on the Scimitar's bridge. The bridge is as unique as the rest of Shinzon's ship. Instead of the usual mechanical clutter, this bridge is designed with an almost Asian simplicity. Like the rest of Reman design, it is spare and elegant. Since the Remans are more comfortable in the darkness, most of the light comes from the three steadily pulsing warp core relays which dramatically soar up through the floor of the bridge. The crew gazes at the bridge and the monstrous features of the viceroy. The transmission ends abruptly. The Scimitar reappears on the viewscreen. Picard, Riker, Deanna, Worf and Data head toward the turbolift, energized now that the endless waiting is over. It is a huge, empty chamber. No furniture. A simple Reman mat on the floor is the only decoration. At the very top of the room there is a large, etched glass dome. It is very dark. They turn when Shinzon speaks from the shadows: Shinzon moves toward them a bit, becoming slightly more illuminated, the low light shining off

What do Riker and Troy hope to accomplish on Betazed?

They hope to be married

in his mustang -- making a shakey, screeching curve at the bend of the beach. And he's gone. An ominous ROAR of an AIRPLANE above RAY. -- flying away. The ENGINEER, exhausted, doesn't feel anything funny. The poets face brightens. A small but ever-so-sweet smile of triumph hikes up the corners of his mouth. He stands, sways, than moves out of view. The empty bottle of whiskey, its sands run out, is left behind. As we FADE OUT, a hardy, mischievous Morrison laugh and a ripple of sensuous MUSIC carry us into the lilting, lamenting strains of AN AMERICAN PRAYER -- THE END without lyrics for now as we cut to: Looks at the time. Somewhere near dawn. The sounds of a bath being drawn. Nightmare or sleep? She tries to fade back to sleep but the MUSIC and the WHISPERING prod her, pull her awake... His face. At peace, as she sobs, the MUSIC cresting to Jim's lyrics. The MUSIC rolling up on: The AUDIENCE is out there somewhere in the dark -- we sense they too have become ghosts, as all of us will one day. The MUSIC continuing up to roll from AMERICAN PRAYER -- THE END -- snatches we annotate. Camera closing past the DOORS to JIM alone, circling the mike with his dance -- the INDIAN GHOSTMAN jigging, shaman- like, off to the side -- now levitating above the stage, all crazy, gawky dancing. bristling. A COYOTE lurks under the sickly light of a streetlamp, pulling its head from an overstuffed garbage can, looking back at them. She breaks into sobs, seeking his arms. He hugs her. In the notebooks, at intervals during the conversation, we see powerful sketches colored in visionary hallucinogenic William Blake mode with writing between. Books are everywhere -- panning Kerouac, Ginsberg, Nietzsche, Rimbaud, Mailer, Artaud, mythological works, shamanistic books, a library of stolen ideas. Pam shivers, a strange thought. He runs his fingers thru her hair, kissing her gently. The panties coming off. Rousseau dangling from the Venice moon. He moves a little over excited, nervous, more awkward than we might expect. RAY MANZAREK is meditating in yoga posture, longer hair as well, in his post-graduate phase, sandals, colorful hippie shirt. But the meditation is not going well. He's shaking his head at himself, frowning. Jim has approached closer, amused, looking down. Ray opening his eyes -- his POV -- Jim, slouched, jacket over his shoulder, sun behind him. Jim has crouched, digging his hand in the sand. As the grains spill out of his fist he has his eyes closed. Ray pantomimes chords in the keyboard sand. All of a sudden we're in RAY'S POV -- a mystical moment. Jim singing, no sound, then pure song, unadulterated by atmosphere. Jim stops, shrugs. Ray looks at him a long beat. Intense eyes, the manner of a man who knows what he wants and cannot be stopped. Jim laughs, loves Ray's ardor as they move along the ocean side. As they walk off, the two of them along the edge of the Pacific. A dog jumping for a frisbee. The music of MOONLIGHT DRIVE now riffs over the real song now. JIM straining to make it work, jumping around violent, The GHOST of the DEAD INDIAN is also looking at him. We are looking at JIM from its point of view -- a blur of light, some headdress, a sense of skins... music drops back, no lyrics... the voice is old, familiar, possible Spanish descent dialect or huararchi. The voice, the pretense, -- the glow too quickly fades -- leaving Jim so alone, not sure what he has heard, yet he knows he has heard, and he knows he has seen -- and once you have seen, it will never be the same again. His eyes. Camera pulling out from his eyes. There's something different tonight. Something in the air. His eyes are open, he's facing outward, gripping the mike for his life, hair falling in his face, dripping sweat, we sense all his soul concentrated in what he has to say. Cliques of GROUPIES have staked claims at the foot of the stage, eyes fucking him as he writhes, spreading his legs. Every twitch, every moment he sucks out the tension on the musical interludes generates a whip of a reaction in his audience. Nobody is moving in the club. The DANCERS are still, the GO GO GIRLS in their white plastic boots and dresses hang motionless in their gilded cages. Even the WAITRESSES have stopped, frozen with their trays, denying something is going to happen. PAMELA, DOROTHY... JERRY from the Fog, also the manager of this place, watches from the balcony, shaking his head, doesn't understand. Panning to two RECORD TYPES with him -- JAC HOLZMAN, distinguished six footer, suit, and PAUL ROTHCHILD, funky, pigtailed, ex-con, early 30s. The band has come together fully now. ROBBIE'S fingers sliding across the trembling strings, staring at the ceiling, wandering around the darkened portions of stage left, he feels Jim -- now humming a song from the desert. The OTHERS join in his chant, the four rising and falling like a collective breath. Suddenly Jim breaks and rises out of the circle. Ray, Robbie, John, all looking at him. The same need. Pamela, the desperation of her eyes. He goes, his boots in the sand. Pamela calling from another dune, far away. His POV -- of her, receding. She screams for him. He's in pain. Cannot help her. A BIRD of prey in the sky. Jim moving across a lunar landscape. SPECIAL EFFECT: The sun is black like night or else white in a black sky. Voices in the distance. "Jim, where are you going?" A mother's voice, a father's voice. At the overturned truck, the bodies in the road... at the older Indian looking at him... finally at the dying Indian... his eyes. JIM bounds towards the crevice. Jim, thunderstruck, gaping. A gallery of ancient INDIAN PETROGLYPHS surround him on all sides. Curious, oblong figures, buffalo, sacred deer and bear, creatures of the hunt; hunters and their weapons, rain clouds, masked deities proclaiming the answers to the Mysteries, the story of Creation. Camera weaving up to see one of the faces of the deities -- staring at him from the wall -- an eagle's face... The sound of a rattle -- "shichishichi" -- he realizes he's being watched. By what? He whips his eyes everywhere. A large LIZARD perches on a boulder assesses him calmly, tatters of a former skin clinging to its throat, spits a forked tongue and drills its black pearly eyes into his skull... Now the sound of the Bull-Roarer, whipping the air, announcing the appearance of the shaman. Jim's struck with an overwhelming sense of... awe... ancient mysteries. He turns. The lizard is looking at him. -- REVERSE IRIS on Jim -- feeling it now. The peyote. JIM's POV -- Pam irising out. This strange sound in his ears -- a rattle of an Indian gourd, similar to what we heard in the car in Arizona when Jim was a boy. Now a distant Indian drum beating. The beginning strains of THE END dribble in. They're all LAUGHING (strange noise) -- in a circle somewhere on the edge of a precipice in deep arroyos and magnificent rocks and cacti... A football huddle of faces - RAY, JOHN, ROBBIE, JIM -- the four DOORS... laughing with the first mad impulse of the peyote. PAM is vomiting her brains out as DOROTHY tries to comfort her on the edge of a cliff... Jim panthers up the dune. They hug. She throws up again. Jim holds his head. Feels the ride. JUMP CUTS: Jim and Pam are touching each other. Face. Shadows. Sand falls from Pam's hand. Jim turns to hawk at a bird. "Hawk! Hawk!" Then Pam is dancing alone on the dune. Abruptly Jim is back in the circle with the Doors in a sense torn between them and Pam. EXTREME CLOSEUPS of their faces, their eyes, the tensions of the trip tearing apart their teeth as they go from the laughing to the dangerous part. John shutters -- as does Robbie and Ray. Jim seems possessed. Pause. He has instilled a flux of fear in the group. Jim looking at her, smiles. Ray has his head buried in his hands. He takes Ray and Robbie's hands, his voice calming them, reform the circle. John hesitant. Not all will enter the gates at evening. Pulling John into the circle, bonding, their four heads sunk to the desert floor, Jim making wild Indian sounds, deep- throated "shoooh... shoooh"...

Who did Jim Morrison see dying on a desert highway in 1949?

An elderly Native American

in his mustang -- making a shakey, screeching curve at the bend of the beach. And he's gone. An ominous ROAR of an AIRPLANE above RAY. -- flying away. The ENGINEER, exhausted, doesn't feel anything funny. The poets face brightens. A small but ever-so-sweet smile of triumph hikes up the corners of his mouth. He stands, sways, than moves out of view. The empty bottle of whiskey, its sands run out, is left behind. As we FADE OUT, a hardy, mischievous Morrison laugh and a ripple of sensuous MUSIC carry us into the lilting, lamenting strains of AN AMERICAN PRAYER -- THE END without lyrics for now as we cut to: Looks at the time. Somewhere near dawn. The sounds of a bath being drawn. Nightmare or sleep? She tries to fade back to sleep but the MUSIC and the WHISPERING prod her, pull her awake... His face. At peace, as she sobs, the MUSIC cresting to Jim's lyrics. The MUSIC rolling up on: The AUDIENCE is out there somewhere in the dark -- we sense they too have become ghosts, as all of us will one day. The MUSIC continuing up to roll from AMERICAN PRAYER -- THE END -- snatches we annotate. Camera closing past the DOORS to JIM alone, circling the mike with his dance -- the INDIAN GHOSTMAN jigging, shaman- like, off to the side -- now levitating above the stage, all crazy, gawky dancing. bristling. A COYOTE lurks under the sickly light of a streetlamp, pulling its head from an overstuffed garbage can, looking back at them. She breaks into sobs, seeking his arms. He hugs her. In the notebooks, at intervals during the conversation, we see powerful sketches colored in visionary hallucinogenic William Blake mode with writing between. Books are everywhere -- panning Kerouac, Ginsberg, Nietzsche, Rimbaud, Mailer, Artaud, mythological works, shamanistic books, a library of stolen ideas. Pam shivers, a strange thought. He runs his fingers thru her hair, kissing her gently. The panties coming off. Rousseau dangling from the Venice moon. He moves a little over excited, nervous, more awkward than we might expect. RAY MANZAREK is meditating in yoga posture, longer hair as well, in his post-graduate phase, sandals, colorful hippie shirt. But the meditation is not going well. He's shaking his head at himself, frowning. Jim has approached closer, amused, looking down. Ray opening his eyes -- his POV -- Jim, slouched, jacket over his shoulder, sun behind him. Jim has crouched, digging his hand in the sand. As the grains spill out of his fist he has his eyes closed. Ray pantomimes chords in the keyboard sand. All of a sudden we're in RAY'S POV -- a mystical moment. Jim singing, no sound, then pure song, unadulterated by atmosphere. Jim stops, shrugs. Ray looks at him a long beat. Intense eyes, the manner of a man who knows what he wants and cannot be stopped. Jim laughs, loves Ray's ardor as they move along the ocean side. As they walk off, the two of them along the edge of the Pacific. A dog jumping for a frisbee. The music of MOONLIGHT DRIVE now riffs over the real song now. JIM straining to make it work, jumping around violent, now humming a song from the desert. The OTHERS join in his chant, the four rising and falling like a collective breath. Suddenly Jim breaks and rises out of the circle. Ray, Robbie, John, all looking at him. The same need. Pamela, the desperation of her eyes. He goes, his boots in the sand. Pamela calling from another dune, far away. His POV -- of her, receding. She screams for him. He's in pain. Cannot help her. A BIRD of prey in the sky. Jim moving across a lunar landscape. SPECIAL EFFECT: The sun is black like night or else white in a black sky. Voices in the distance. "Jim, where are you going?" A mother's voice, a father's voice. At the overturned truck, the bodies in the road... at the older Indian looking at him... finally at the dying Indian... his eyes. JIM bounds towards the crevice. Jim, thunderstruck, gaping. A gallery of ancient INDIAN PETROGLYPHS surround him on all sides. Curious, oblong figures, buffalo, sacred deer and bear, creatures of the hunt; hunters and their weapons, rain clouds, masked deities proclaiming the answers to the Mysteries, the story of Creation. Camera weaving up to see one of the faces of the deities -- staring at him from the wall -- an eagle's face... The sound of a rattle -- "shichishichi" -- he realizes he's being watched. By what? He whips his eyes everywhere. A large LIZARD perches on a boulder assesses him calmly, tatters of a former skin clinging to its throat, spits a forked tongue and drills its black pearly eyes into his skull... Now the sound of the Bull-Roarer, whipping the air, announcing the appearance of the shaman. Jim's struck with an overwhelming sense of... awe... ancient mysteries. He turns. The lizard is looking at him. echoes him back with his flamenco-blues guitar. JOHN on drums, reading Jim's moods, throws in the spontaneous and violent riffs that keep it savage. He literally tortures Jim's ears with his drums. And RAY, concentrated with his nodding head like a big flamingo over his keyboard, mixing it up, throwing curves, yet also -- and more delicately -- torturing Jim with the messianic organ sounds that shriek in his ears. There is something of Merlin in Ray -- the alchemist knowing how to play Jim. And JIM -- "that sneaky silent lithe flowing flexing animal" -- ready at last to share both his body and his soul with the world, to live out the words of the Indian prophet... to lead. Ray looks over up from his board, catches Robby with a 'what's this?' look... They go with it, improvising... Jim clutching the mike tighter, seeking solace in its arms; it all hangs in the air as if he doesn't have any idea what he's going to say next. Pamela sensing something is coming... the AUDIENCE... Jerry... the go-go dancers... FLASH -- A FATHER'S FACE, any face, older, any man... FLASH -- A MOTHER'S FACE, any face, older, a woman As the AUDIENCE gasps, shocked, stunned... As the guitar hits a high, horrid reverb, JIM in slightly SLOW MOTION suddenly tightens his backbone as if electrocuted and shoots violently backwards, hitting the floor like a puppet cut from his string -- we sense Jim himself has crossed a barrier now, gone into yet another stage of his performance, a stage from which he can never return. Like the gunfighter who has killed his first man. RAY sees it instantly where it's going, hits the organ! Robbie and John follow. the instruments EXPLODE all at once trying to bury Jim in of a dying Indian on an Arizona highway -- then gone. A moment, only three, four beats. An optical illusion? Maybe. Or is it saying, 'now you are just a white man'... maybe not. As it drifts off in a cloud, into the vast audience's EYEBALL. He waits. INTERCUTS of the FACES in the crowd. Jim pulling his shirt off -- barechested -- waving it like a toreador in front of his leather crotch. The audience seems to be paying no attention to what he is doing or saying, which drives him to deeper rage. He saunters to the edge of the stage. Hisses at them. He clasps his crotch, leering at a cute LITTLE GIRL in the front row, shaking it at her. Her BOYFRIEND, pissed at Jim, runs for the stage. Jim unzips his leathers. He feigns opening his belt and exposing himself, flipping his shirt back and forth over the crotch in a mock striptease. A flock of TEENAGE GIRLS are sure they've seen it, hysterical. RAY starts playing BREAK ON THROUGH trying to keep things normal. JIM now out there in the arena in a CONGA LINE, doing his rain dance, hands on hips, the TEENAGERS forming a long snake behind him. The huge speaker columns teeter and fall. A corner of the STAGE now COLLAPSES from the weight, PEOPLE spilling on the floor, screams. The power console tips over next to DENSMORE. He bails. Manzarek and Krieger follow. The PROMOTER is yelling at SIDDONS about his insurance contract as the COPS and FBI AGENTS close in, looking for Jim. Who is out there leading his naked drunken FLOCK, hundreds of them in a phallic Pied Piper dance thru the darkened seaplane hanger. From BREAK ON THROUGH PART TWO: Ray watching from the corner of the

In which U.S. state did Jim Morrison arrive in 1965?

California

in his mustang -- making a shakey, screeching curve at the bend of the beach. And he's gone. An ominous ROAR of an AIRPLANE above RAY. -- flying away. The ENGINEER, exhausted, doesn't feel anything funny. The poets face brightens. A small but ever-so-sweet smile of triumph hikes up the corners of his mouth. He stands, sways, than moves out of view. The empty bottle of whiskey, its sands run out, is left behind. As we FADE OUT, a hardy, mischievous Morrison laugh and a ripple of sensuous MUSIC carry us into the lilting, lamenting strains of AN AMERICAN PRAYER -- THE END without lyrics for now as we cut to: Looks at the time. Somewhere near dawn. The sounds of a bath being drawn. Nightmare or sleep? She tries to fade back to sleep but the MUSIC and the WHISPERING prod her, pull her awake... His face. At peace, as she sobs, the MUSIC cresting to Jim's lyrics. The MUSIC rolling up on: The AUDIENCE is out there somewhere in the dark -- we sense they too have become ghosts, as all of us will one day. The MUSIC continuing up to roll from AMERICAN PRAYER -- THE END -- snatches we annotate. Camera closing past the DOORS to JIM alone, circling the mike with his dance -- the INDIAN GHOSTMAN jigging, shaman- like, off to the side -- now levitating above the stage, all crazy, gawky dancing. bristling. A COYOTE lurks under the sickly light of a streetlamp, pulling its head from an overstuffed garbage can, looking back at them. She breaks into sobs, seeking his arms. He hugs her. In the notebooks, at intervals during the conversation, we see powerful sketches colored in visionary hallucinogenic William Blake mode with writing between. Books are everywhere -- panning Kerouac, Ginsberg, Nietzsche, Rimbaud, Mailer, Artaud, mythological works, shamanistic books, a library of stolen ideas. Pam shivers, a strange thought. He runs his fingers thru her hair, kissing her gently. The panties coming off. Rousseau dangling from the Venice moon. He moves a little over excited, nervous, more awkward than we might expect. RAY MANZAREK is meditating in yoga posture, longer hair as well, in his post-graduate phase, sandals, colorful hippie shirt. But the meditation is not going well. He's shaking his head at himself, frowning. Jim has approached closer, amused, looking down. Ray opening his eyes -- his POV -- Jim, slouched, jacket over his shoulder, sun behind him. Jim has crouched, digging his hand in the sand. As the grains spill out of his fist he has his eyes closed. Ray pantomimes chords in the keyboard sand. All of a sudden we're in RAY'S POV -- a mystical moment. Jim singing, no sound, then pure song, unadulterated by atmosphere. Jim stops, shrugs. Ray looks at him a long beat. Intense eyes, the manner of a man who knows what he wants and cannot be stopped. Jim laughs, loves Ray's ardor as they move along the ocean side. As they walk off, the two of them along the edge of the Pacific. A dog jumping for a frisbee. The music of MOONLIGHT DRIVE now riffs over the real song now. JIM straining to make it work, jumping around violent, The GHOST of the DEAD INDIAN is also looking at him. We are looking at JIM from its point of view -- a blur of light, some headdress, a sense of skins... music drops back, no lyrics... the voice is old, familiar, possible Spanish descent dialect or huararchi. The voice, the pretense, -- the glow too quickly fades -- leaving Jim so alone, not sure what he has heard, yet he knows he has heard, and he knows he has seen -- and once you have seen, it will never be the same again. His eyes. Camera pulling out from his eyes. There's something different tonight. Something in the air. His eyes are open, he's facing outward, gripping the mike for his life, hair falling in his face, dripping sweat, we sense all his soul concentrated in what he has to say. Cliques of GROUPIES have staked claims at the foot of the stage, eyes fucking him as he writhes, spreading his legs. Every twitch, every moment he sucks out the tension on the musical interludes generates a whip of a reaction in his audience. Nobody is moving in the club. The DANCERS are still, the GO GO GIRLS in their white plastic boots and dresses hang motionless in their gilded cages. Even the WAITRESSES have stopped, frozen with their trays, denying something is going to happen. PAMELA, DOROTHY... JERRY from the Fog, also the manager of this place, watches from the balcony, shaking his head, doesn't understand. Panning to two RECORD TYPES with him -- JAC HOLZMAN, distinguished six footer, suit, and PAUL ROTHCHILD, funky, pigtailed, ex-con, early 30s. The band has come together fully now. ROBBIE'S fingers sliding across the trembling strings, staring at the ceiling, wandering around the darkened portions of stage left, he feels Jim -- now humming a song from the desert. The OTHERS join in his chant, the four rising and falling like a collective breath. Suddenly Jim breaks and rises out of the circle. Ray, Robbie, John, all looking at him. The same need. Pamela, the desperation of her eyes. He goes, his boots in the sand. Pamela calling from another dune, far away. His POV -- of her, receding. She screams for him. He's in pain. Cannot help her. A BIRD of prey in the sky. Jim moving across a lunar landscape. SPECIAL EFFECT: The sun is black like night or else white in a black sky. Voices in the distance. "Jim, where are you going?" A mother's voice, a father's voice. At the overturned truck, the bodies in the road... at the older Indian looking at him... finally at the dying Indian... his eyes. JIM bounds towards the crevice. Jim, thunderstruck, gaping. A gallery of ancient INDIAN PETROGLYPHS surround him on all sides. Curious, oblong figures, buffalo, sacred deer and bear, creatures of the hunt; hunters and their weapons, rain clouds, masked deities proclaiming the answers to the Mysteries, the story of Creation. Camera weaving up to see one of the faces of the deities -- staring at him from the wall -- an eagle's face... The sound of a rattle -- "shichishichi" -- he realizes he's being watched. By what? He whips his eyes everywhere. A large LIZARD perches on a boulder assesses him calmly, tatters of a former skin clinging to its throat, spits a forked tongue and drills its black pearly eyes into his skull... Now the sound of the Bull-Roarer, whipping the air, announcing the appearance of the shaman. Jim's struck with an overwhelming sense of... awe... ancient mysteries. He turns. The lizard is looking at him. echoes him back with his flamenco-blues guitar. JOHN on drums, reading Jim's moods, throws in the spontaneous and violent riffs that keep it savage. He literally tortures Jim's ears with his drums. And RAY, concentrated with his nodding head like a big flamingo over his keyboard, mixing it up, throwing curves, yet also -- and more delicately -- torturing Jim with the messianic organ sounds that shriek in his ears. There is something of Merlin in Ray -- the alchemist knowing how to play Jim. And JIM -- "that sneaky silent lithe flowing flexing animal" -- ready at last to share both his body and his soul with the world, to live out the words of the Indian prophet... to lead. Ray looks over up from his board, catches Robby with a 'what's this?' look... They go with it, improvising... Jim clutching the mike tighter, seeking solace in its arms; it all hangs in the air as if he doesn't have any idea what he's going to say next. Pamela sensing something is coming... the AUDIENCE... Jerry... the go-go dancers... FLASH -- A FATHER'S FACE, any face, older, any man... FLASH -- A MOTHER'S FACE, any face, older, a woman As the AUDIENCE gasps, shocked, stunned... As the guitar hits a high, horrid reverb, JIM in slightly SLOW MOTION suddenly tightens his backbone as if electrocuted and shoots violently backwards, hitting the floor like a puppet cut from his string -- we sense Jim himself has crossed a barrier now, gone into yet another stage of his performance, a stage from which he can never return. Like the gunfighter who has killed his first man. RAY sees it instantly where it's going, hits the organ! Robbie and John follow. the instruments EXPLODE all at once trying to bury Jim in

At what school did Jim Morrison study?

UCLA

in his mustang -- making a shakey, screeching curve at the bend of the beach. And he's gone. An ominous ROAR of an AIRPLANE above RAY. -- flying away. The ENGINEER, exhausted, doesn't feel anything funny. The poets face brightens. A small but ever-so-sweet smile of triumph hikes up the corners of his mouth. He stands, sways, than moves out of view. The empty bottle of whiskey, its sands run out, is left behind. As we FADE OUT, a hardy, mischievous Morrison laugh and a ripple of sensuous MUSIC carry us into the lilting, lamenting strains of AN AMERICAN PRAYER -- THE END without lyrics for now as we cut to: Looks at the time. Somewhere near dawn. The sounds of a bath being drawn. Nightmare or sleep? She tries to fade back to sleep but the MUSIC and the WHISPERING prod her, pull her awake... His face. At peace, as she sobs, the MUSIC cresting to Jim's lyrics. The MUSIC rolling up on: The AUDIENCE is out there somewhere in the dark -- we sense they too have become ghosts, as all of us will one day. The MUSIC continuing up to roll from AMERICAN PRAYER -- THE END -- snatches we annotate. Camera closing past the DOORS to JIM alone, circling the mike with his dance -- the INDIAN GHOSTMAN jigging, shaman- like, off to the side -- now levitating above the stage, all crazy, gawky dancing. bristling. A COYOTE lurks under the sickly light of a streetlamp, pulling its head from an overstuffed garbage can, looking back at them. She breaks into sobs, seeking his arms. He hugs her. In the notebooks, at intervals during the conversation, we see powerful sketches colored in visionary hallucinogenic William Blake mode with writing between. Books are everywhere -- panning Kerouac, Ginsberg, Nietzsche, Rimbaud, Mailer, Artaud, mythological works, shamanistic books, a library of stolen ideas. Pam shivers, a strange thought. He runs his fingers thru her hair, kissing her gently. The panties coming off. Rousseau dangling from the Venice moon. He moves a little over excited, nervous, more awkward than we might expect. RAY MANZAREK is meditating in yoga posture, longer hair as well, in his post-graduate phase, sandals, colorful hippie shirt. But the meditation is not going well. He's shaking his head at himself, frowning. Jim has approached closer, amused, looking down. Ray opening his eyes -- his POV -- Jim, slouched, jacket over his shoulder, sun behind him. Jim has crouched, digging his hand in the sand. As the grains spill out of his fist he has his eyes closed. Ray pantomimes chords in the keyboard sand. All of a sudden we're in RAY'S POV -- a mystical moment. Jim singing, no sound, then pure song, unadulterated by atmosphere. Jim stops, shrugs. Ray looks at him a long beat. Intense eyes, the manner of a man who knows what he wants and cannot be stopped. Jim laughs, loves Ray's ardor as they move along the ocean side. As they walk off, the two of them along the edge of the Pacific. A dog jumping for a frisbee. The music of MOONLIGHT DRIVE now riffs over the real song now. JIM straining to make it work, jumping around violent, The GHOST of the DEAD INDIAN is also looking at him. We are looking at JIM from its point of view -- a blur of light, some headdress, a sense of skins... music drops back, no lyrics... the voice is old, familiar, possible Spanish descent dialect or huararchi. The voice, the pretense, -- the glow too quickly fades -- leaving Jim so alone, not sure what he has heard, yet he knows he has heard, and he knows he has seen -- and once you have seen, it will never be the same again. His eyes. Camera pulling out from his eyes. There's something different tonight. Something in the air. His eyes are open, he's facing outward, gripping the mike for his life, hair falling in his face, dripping sweat, we sense all his soul concentrated in what he has to say. Cliques of GROUPIES have staked claims at the foot of the stage, eyes fucking him as he writhes, spreading his legs. Every twitch, every moment he sucks out the tension on the musical interludes generates a whip of a reaction in his audience. Nobody is moving in the club. The DANCERS are still, the GO GO GIRLS in their white plastic boots and dresses hang motionless in their gilded cages. Even the WAITRESSES have stopped, frozen with their trays, denying something is going to happen. PAMELA, DOROTHY... JERRY from the Fog, also the manager of this place, watches from the balcony, shaking his head, doesn't understand. Panning to two RECORD TYPES with him -- JAC HOLZMAN, distinguished six footer, suit, and PAUL ROTHCHILD, funky, pigtailed, ex-con, early 30s. The band has come together fully now. ROBBIE'S fingers sliding across the trembling strings, staring at the ceiling, wandering around the darkened portions of stage left, he feels Jim -- of a dying Indian on an Arizona highway -- then gone. A moment, only three, four beats. An optical illusion? Maybe. Or is it saying, 'now you are just a white man'... maybe not. As it drifts off in a cloud, into the vast audience's EYEBALL. He waits. INTERCUTS of the FACES in the crowd. Jim pulling his shirt off -- barechested -- waving it like a toreador in front of his leather crotch. The audience seems to be paying no attention to what he is doing or saying, which drives him to deeper rage. He saunters to the edge of the stage. Hisses at them. He clasps his crotch, leering at a cute LITTLE GIRL in the front row, shaking it at her. Her BOYFRIEND, pissed at Jim, runs for the stage. Jim unzips his leathers. He feigns opening his belt and exposing himself, flipping his shirt back and forth over the crotch in a mock striptease. A flock of TEENAGE GIRLS are sure they've seen it, hysterical. RAY starts playing BREAK ON THROUGH trying to keep things normal. JIM now out there in the arena in a CONGA LINE, doing his rain dance, hands on hips, the TEENAGERS forming a long snake behind him. The huge speaker columns teeter and fall. A corner of the STAGE now COLLAPSES from the weight, PEOPLE spilling on the floor, screams. The power console tips over next to DENSMORE. He bails. Manzarek and Krieger follow. The PROMOTER is yelling at SIDDONS about his insurance contract as the COPS and FBI AGENTS close in, looking for Jim. Who is out there leading his naked drunken FLOCK, hundreds of them in a phallic Pied Piper dance thru the darkened seaplane hanger. From BREAK ON THROUGH PART TWO: Ray watching from the corner of the the stage as JIM looses one of his primal SCREAMS. He slobbers, drunk, slouches, stumbles, regains his balance. The Crowd loves it, but Ray senses something wrong. Robbie starts to feel the effects of the acid Jim gave him -- his eyes registering fear. During the instrumental break, Jim picks up one of the roses from the floor, pokes it at John on the drums, who whacks it to death on his skins. Jim starts to whirl the mike cord like a slingshot or bolo, in an ever-widening arc... ...it flies off and smashes into the head of the PROMOTER at the edge of the stage arguing with SIDDONS. The man is staggered, weaving, Siddons helping him to a FIRST AID TEAM. PHOTOGRAPHERS flashing cameras. BAKER urging him on from the wings as he passes out. A GIRL runs onto the stage, dumps a bottle of champagne on Jim's head. Jim takes his shirt off, soaking wet. The CROWD is also stripping in the heat, shirts, blouses, screaming so much now they are obviously way past listening to any song. It has become a view of the future -- the NAKED GIRL and BOY dancing stark naked drugged out in the middle of it all, the FAT GIRL prowling naked on the edge of the stage before she's arrested, the FIGHTS in the Crowd, fists, blood, a black man chased and beaten, the sense of Altamont here, the hippie flower trip gone to shit -- it's all come down here tonight, the end of an era. He stops singing suddenly, squinting out into the madness. The arena echoes with the uncomprehending chant of the Mob... SPECIAL EFFECT -- the INDIAN GHOST is leaving Jim's body -- spectrally moving off him, hovering there in the air, its eyes -- the face

Who was Jim Morrison's girlfriend during his days at UCLA?

Pamela Courson

in his mustang -- making a shakey, screeching curve at the bend of the beach. And he's gone. An ominous ROAR of an AIRPLANE above RAY. -- flying away. The ENGINEER, exhausted, doesn't feel anything funny. The poets face brightens. A small but ever-so-sweet smile of triumph hikes up the corners of his mouth. He stands, sways, than moves out of view. The empty bottle of whiskey, its sands run out, is left behind. As we FADE OUT, a hardy, mischievous Morrison laugh and a ripple of sensuous MUSIC carry us into the lilting, lamenting strains of AN AMERICAN PRAYER -- THE END without lyrics for now as we cut to: Looks at the time. Somewhere near dawn. The sounds of a bath being drawn. Nightmare or sleep? She tries to fade back to sleep but the MUSIC and the WHISPERING prod her, pull her awake... His face. At peace, as she sobs, the MUSIC cresting to Jim's lyrics. The MUSIC rolling up on: The AUDIENCE is out there somewhere in the dark -- we sense they too have become ghosts, as all of us will one day. The MUSIC continuing up to roll from AMERICAN PRAYER -- THE END -- snatches we annotate. Camera closing past the DOORS to JIM alone, circling the mike with his dance -- the INDIAN GHOSTMAN jigging, shaman- like, off to the side -- now levitating above the stage, all crazy, gawky dancing. on as the last absurdist images flicker off. Hissing and a big Bronx cheer summarize the feelings of the 100 odd STUDENTS crammed into a bunker-like theater. A youngish INSTRUCTOR stirs to the front row from a row of upset FACULTY. Hands shooting up to criticize. TRICK, BONES and JACK, three friends sitting next to Jim, shoot their hands up. A cacophony of voices, critics, emotions blend out over Jim's quiet eyes. He slows, a dramatic young lion pose, surveying the girls. The cronies wait, anticipating something inescapably evil to escape his lips. Camera moving to reveal JOHN DENSMORE wiry, solid on the drums... moving on to ROBBIE KRIEGER, wispy, ethereal looking, the youngest, flamenco-type moves on his early electric guitar. Also a HARMONICA PLAYER and a BASE. They all seem slightly embarrassed by either the cheap sound system feedback or Ray's warbling, but the crowd couldn't care less -- a German beerhall, they want noise and sex. JIM and his GANG, beers in hand, mouth back the words, beers everywhere shoved to the smokey ceiling, everyone on their feet, nuts with spring fever. Jim eyeing the GIRL next to him. The FOOTBALL TEAM TYPES edge over nearby, one of them picking out Jim with a glare. She looks puzzled by the suggestion. He evades the football man's grasp, elusive physicality. He hops over tables, heading for the stage. Other KIDS are up on the stage dancing, but Jim goes right up alongside RAY, shaking his hips like Elvis. Ray giving him the mike. Improv time. They love it. The place going wild. The girl with the football player wanting him. Jim slides her upstairs' door open, crawls in next to her bed. She's asleep with her boyfriend. He touches her toe. She awakes, startled. There's a crash. They turn bristling. A COYOTE lurks under the sickly light of a streetlamp, pulling its head from an overstuffed garbage can, looking back at them. She breaks into sobs, seeking his arms. He hugs her. In the notebooks, at intervals during the conversation, we see powerful sketches colored in visionary hallucinogenic William Blake mode with writing between. Books are everywhere -- panning Kerouac, Ginsberg, Nietzsche, Rimbaud, Mailer, Artaud, mythological works, shamanistic books, a library of stolen ideas. Pam shivers, a strange thought. He runs his fingers thru her hair, kissing her gently. The panties coming off. Rousseau dangling from the Venice moon. He moves a little over excited, nervous, more awkward than we might expect. RAY MANZAREK is meditating in yoga posture, longer hair as well, in his post-graduate phase, sandals, colorful hippie shirt. But the meditation is not going well. He's shaking his head at himself, frowning. Jim has approached closer, amused, looking down. Ray opening his eyes -- his POV -- Jim, slouched, jacket over his shoulder, sun behind him. Jim has crouched, digging his hand in the sand. As the grains spill out of his fist he has his eyes closed. Ray pantomimes chords in the keyboard sand. All of a sudden we're in RAY'S POV -- a mystical moment. Jim singing, no sound, then pure song, unadulterated by atmosphere. Jim stops, shrugs. Ray looks at him a long beat. Intense eyes, the manner of a man who knows what he wants and cannot be stopped. Jim laughs, loves Ray's ardor as they move along the ocean side. As they walk off, the two of them along the edge of the Pacific. A dog jumping for a frisbee. The music of MOONLIGHT DRIVE now riffs over the real song now. JIM straining to make it work, jumping around violent, The GHOST of the DEAD INDIAN is also looking at him. We are looking at JIM from its point of view -- a blur of light, some headdress, a sense of skins... music drops back, no lyrics... the voice is old, familiar, possible Spanish descent dialect or huararchi. The voice, the pretense, -- the glow too quickly fades -- leaving Jim so alone, not sure what he has heard, yet he knows he has heard, and he knows he has seen -- and once you have seen, it will never be the same again. His eyes. Camera pulling out from his eyes. There's something different tonight. Something in the air. His eyes are open, he's facing outward, gripping the mike for his life, hair falling in his face, dripping sweat, we sense all his soul concentrated in what he has to say. Cliques of GROUPIES have staked claims at the foot of the stage, eyes fucking him as he writhes, spreading his legs. Every twitch, every moment he sucks out the tension on the musical interludes generates a whip of a reaction in his audience. Nobody is moving in the club. The DANCERS are still, the GO GO GIRLS in their white plastic boots and dresses hang motionless in their gilded cages. Even the WAITRESSES have stopped, frozen with their trays, denying something is going to happen. PAMELA, DOROTHY... JERRY from the Fog, also the manager of this place, watches from the balcony, shaking his head, doesn't understand. Panning to two RECORD TYPES with him -- JAC HOLZMAN, distinguished six footer, suit, and PAUL ROTHCHILD, funky, pigtailed, ex-con, early 30s. The band has come together fully now. ROBBIE'S fingers sliding across the trembling strings, staring at the ceiling, wandering around the darkened portions of stage left, he feels Jim -- now humming a song from the desert. The OTHERS join in his chant, the four rising and falling like a collective breath. Suddenly Jim breaks and rises out of the circle. Ray, Robbie, John, all looking at him. The same need. Pamela, the desperation of her eyes. He goes, his boots in the sand. Pamela calling from another dune, far away. His POV -- of her, receding. She screams for him. He's in pain. Cannot help her. A BIRD of prey in the sky. Jim moving across a lunar landscape. SPECIAL EFFECT: The sun is black like night or else white in a black sky. Voices in the distance. "Jim, where are you going?" A mother's voice, a father's voice. At the overturned truck, the bodies in the road... at the older Indian looking at him... finally at the dying Indian... his eyes. JIM bounds towards the crevice. Jim, thunderstruck, gaping. A gallery of ancient INDIAN PETROGLYPHS surround him on all sides. Curious, oblong figures, buffalo, sacred deer and bear, creatures of the hunt; hunters and their weapons, rain clouds, masked deities proclaiming the answers to the Mysteries, the story of Creation. Camera weaving up to see one of the faces of the deities -- staring at him from the wall -- an eagle's face... The sound of a rattle -- "shichishichi" -- he realizes he's being watched. By what? He whips his eyes everywhere. A large LIZARD perches on a boulder assesses him calmly, tatters of a former skin clinging to its throat, spits a forked tongue and drills its black pearly eyes into his skull... Now the sound of the Bull-Roarer, whipping the air, announcing the appearance of the shaman. Jim's struck with an overwhelming sense of... awe... ancient mysteries. He turns. The lizard is looking at him.

Why did Jim Morrison invite his classmates to Death Valley?

to experience psychedelic drugs

in his mustang -- making a shakey, screeching curve at the bend of the beach. And he's gone. An ominous ROAR of an AIRPLANE above RAY. -- flying away. The ENGINEER, exhausted, doesn't feel anything funny. The poets face brightens. A small but ever-so-sweet smile of triumph hikes up the corners of his mouth. He stands, sways, than moves out of view. The empty bottle of whiskey, its sands run out, is left behind. As we FADE OUT, a hardy, mischievous Morrison laugh and a ripple of sensuous MUSIC carry us into the lilting, lamenting strains of AN AMERICAN PRAYER -- THE END without lyrics for now as we cut to: Looks at the time. Somewhere near dawn. The sounds of a bath being drawn. Nightmare or sleep? She tries to fade back to sleep but the MUSIC and the WHISPERING prod her, pull her awake... His face. At peace, as she sobs, the MUSIC cresting to Jim's lyrics. The MUSIC rolling up on: The AUDIENCE is out there somewhere in the dark -- we sense they too have become ghosts, as all of us will one day. The MUSIC continuing up to roll from AMERICAN PRAYER -- THE END -- snatches we annotate. Camera closing past the DOORS to JIM alone, circling the mike with his dance -- the INDIAN GHOSTMAN jigging, shaman- like, off to the side -- now levitating above the stage, all crazy, gawky dancing. The GHOST of the DEAD INDIAN is also looking at him. We are looking at JIM from its point of view -- a blur of light, some headdress, a sense of skins... music drops back, no lyrics... the voice is old, familiar, possible Spanish descent dialect or huararchi. The voice, the pretense, -- the glow too quickly fades -- leaving Jim so alone, not sure what he has heard, yet he knows he has heard, and he knows he has seen -- and once you have seen, it will never be the same again. His eyes. Camera pulling out from his eyes. There's something different tonight. Something in the air. His eyes are open, he's facing outward, gripping the mike for his life, hair falling in his face, dripping sweat, we sense all his soul concentrated in what he has to say. Cliques of GROUPIES have staked claims at the foot of the stage, eyes fucking him as he writhes, spreading his legs. Every twitch, every moment he sucks out the tension on the musical interludes generates a whip of a reaction in his audience. Nobody is moving in the club. The DANCERS are still, the GO GO GIRLS in their white plastic boots and dresses hang motionless in their gilded cages. Even the WAITRESSES have stopped, frozen with their trays, denying something is going to happen. PAMELA, DOROTHY... JERRY from the Fog, also the manager of this place, watches from the balcony, shaking his head, doesn't understand. Panning to two RECORD TYPES with him -- JAC HOLZMAN, distinguished six footer, suit, and PAUL ROTHCHILD, funky, pigtailed, ex-con, early 30s. The band has come together fully now. ROBBIE'S fingers sliding across the trembling strings, staring at the ceiling, wandering around the darkened portions of stage left, he feels Jim -- echoes him back with his flamenco-blues guitar. JOHN on drums, reading Jim's moods, throws in the spontaneous and violent riffs that keep it savage. He literally tortures Jim's ears with his drums. And RAY, concentrated with his nodding head like a big flamingo over his keyboard, mixing it up, throwing curves, yet also -- and more delicately -- torturing Jim with the messianic organ sounds that shriek in his ears. There is something of Merlin in Ray -- the alchemist knowing how to play Jim. And JIM -- "that sneaky silent lithe flowing flexing animal" -- ready at last to share both his body and his soul with the world, to live out the words of the Indian prophet... to lead. Ray looks over up from his board, catches Robby with a 'what's this?' look... They go with it, improvising... Jim clutching the mike tighter, seeking solace in its arms; it all hangs in the air as if he doesn't have any idea what he's going to say next. Pamela sensing something is coming... the AUDIENCE... Jerry... the go-go dancers... FLASH -- A FATHER'S FACE, any face, older, any man... FLASH -- A MOTHER'S FACE, any face, older, a woman As the AUDIENCE gasps, shocked, stunned... As the guitar hits a high, horrid reverb, JIM in slightly SLOW MOTION suddenly tightens his backbone as if electrocuted and shoots violently backwards, hitting the floor like a puppet cut from his string -- we sense Jim himself has crossed a barrier now, gone into yet another stage of his performance, a stage from which he can never return. Like the gunfighter who has killed his first man. RAY sees it instantly where it's going, hits the organ! Robbie and John follow. the instruments EXPLODE all at once trying to bury Jim in bristling. A COYOTE lurks under the sickly light of a streetlamp, pulling its head from an overstuffed garbage can, looking back at them. She breaks into sobs, seeking his arms. He hugs her. In the notebooks, at intervals during the conversation, we see powerful sketches colored in visionary hallucinogenic William Blake mode with writing between. Books are everywhere -- panning Kerouac, Ginsberg, Nietzsche, Rimbaud, Mailer, Artaud, mythological works, shamanistic books, a library of stolen ideas. Pam shivers, a strange thought. He runs his fingers thru her hair, kissing her gently. The panties coming off. Rousseau dangling from the Venice moon. He moves a little over excited, nervous, more awkward than we might expect. RAY MANZAREK is meditating in yoga posture, longer hair as well, in his post-graduate phase, sandals, colorful hippie shirt. But the meditation is not going well. He's shaking his head at himself, frowning. Jim has approached closer, amused, looking down. Ray opening his eyes -- his POV -- Jim, slouched, jacket over his shoulder, sun behind him. Jim has crouched, digging his hand in the sand. As the grains spill out of his fist he has his eyes closed. Ray pantomimes chords in the keyboard sand. All of a sudden we're in RAY'S POV -- a mystical moment. Jim singing, no sound, then pure song, unadulterated by atmosphere. Jim stops, shrugs. Ray looks at him a long beat. Intense eyes, the manner of a man who knows what he wants and cannot be stopped. Jim laughs, loves Ray's ardor as they move along the ocean side. As they walk off, the two of them along the edge of the Pacific. A dog jumping for a frisbee. The music of MOONLIGHT DRIVE now riffs over the real song now. JIM straining to make it work, jumping around violent, of a dying Indian on an Arizona highway -- then gone. A moment, only three, four beats. An optical illusion? Maybe. Or is it saying, 'now you are just a white man'... maybe not. As it drifts off in a cloud, into the vast audience's EYEBALL. He waits. INTERCUTS of the FACES in the crowd. Jim pulling his shirt off -- barechested -- waving it like a toreador in front of his leather crotch. The audience seems to be paying no attention to what he is doing or saying, which drives him to deeper rage. He saunters to the edge of the stage. Hisses at them. He clasps his crotch, leering at a cute LITTLE GIRL in the front row, shaking it at her. Her BOYFRIEND, pissed at Jim, runs for the stage. Jim unzips his leathers. He feigns opening his belt and exposing himself, flipping his shirt back and forth over the crotch in a mock striptease. A flock of TEENAGE GIRLS are sure they've seen it, hysterical. RAY starts playing BREAK ON THROUGH trying to keep things normal. JIM now out there in the arena in a CONGA LINE, doing his rain dance, hands on hips, the TEENAGERS forming a long snake behind him. The huge speaker columns teeter and fall. A corner of the STAGE now COLLAPSES from the weight, PEOPLE spilling on the floor, screams. The power console tips over next to DENSMORE. He bails. Manzarek and Krieger follow. The PROMOTER is yelling at SIDDONS about his insurance contract as the COPS and FBI AGENTS close in, looking for Jim. Who is out there leading his naked drunken FLOCK, hundreds of them in a phallic Pied Piper dance thru the darkened seaplane hanger. From BREAK ON THROUGH PART TWO: Ray watching from the corner of the

What was Jim Morrison's nickname as his band became more popular?

The Lizard King

The GHOST of the DEAD INDIAN is also looking at him. We are looking at JIM from its point of view -- a blur of light, some headdress, a sense of skins... music drops back, no lyrics... the voice is old, familiar, possible Spanish descent dialect or huararchi. The voice, the pretense, -- the glow too quickly fades -- leaving Jim so alone, not sure what he has heard, yet he knows he has heard, and he knows he has seen -- and once you have seen, it will never be the same again. His eyes. Camera pulling out from his eyes. There's something different tonight. Something in the air. His eyes are open, he's facing outward, gripping the mike for his life, hair falling in his face, dripping sweat, we sense all his soul concentrated in what he has to say. Cliques of GROUPIES have staked claims at the foot of the stage, eyes fucking him as he writhes, spreading his legs. Every twitch, every moment he sucks out the tension on the musical interludes generates a whip of a reaction in his audience. Nobody is moving in the club. The DANCERS are still, the GO GO GIRLS in their white plastic boots and dresses hang motionless in their gilded cages. Even the WAITRESSES have stopped, frozen with their trays, denying something is going to happen. PAMELA, DOROTHY... JERRY from the Fog, also the manager of this place, watches from the balcony, shaking his head, doesn't understand. Panning to two RECORD TYPES with him -- JAC HOLZMAN, distinguished six footer, suit, and PAUL ROTHCHILD, funky, pigtailed, ex-con, early 30s. The band has come together fully now. ROBBIE'S fingers sliding across the trembling strings, staring at the ceiling, wandering around the darkened portions of stage left, he feels Jim -- his primal unmistakeable scream. The CLUB in shock. Tribal taboo broken in one instant. Jerry exploding off the balcony toward the stage... Pamela, extremely moved and impressed, and Dorothy... the go- go girls, as jaded as they come, are stunned tension... the groupies love it. Jim has jumped up now, dancing an Indian war dance around the mike. Jerry pinning Jim to the wall, Lost in the melee, RAY and JOHN springing Jim back from likely death JAC HOLZMAN pushing past to Ray. Pamela separating Jim visually from Jerry. Holzman pauses, a dramatic presence, six foot two, impeccably dressed, he knows the weight of his words. It hangs there. Impossible words. John and Robbie sharing looks. Strains of LIGHT MY FIRE cross the cut. Camera moving fast thru the control room, past the ENGINEER (BRUCE BOTNICK), taciturn, 20's, the PRODUCER (PAUL ROTHCHILD) in pig heaven, and the owner JAC HOLZMAN in his blue suit watching. Camera moving fast past a smiling PAM watching, out to the DOORS on the floor, jamming... on to JIM in the vocal booth, headphone to his ears. The song, now fully -- orchestrated, rolling on over the following MONTAGE: A staged 16mm. grainy shot of JIM and PAMELA, RAY and DOROTHY, JOHN, ROBBIE and their TWO NEW GIRLFRIENDS wandering thru the CROWD sharing the spirit. Pam and Jim fool around -- laughing -- tickling each other for the home movie camera shot by Ray... Pam is goofy, makes funny faces, teases him running a flower under his nose, thru his hair, then trips him. He chases her across the lawn. JIM swandives into the stoned crowd with the mike at the instrumental section, a colored spotlight flecking him, GIRLS kiss him. The guys want to be him, the girls want him -- and he knows echoes him back with his flamenco-blues guitar. JOHN on drums, reading Jim's moods, throws in the spontaneous and violent riffs that keep it savage. He literally tortures Jim's ears with his drums. And RAY, concentrated with his nodding head like a big flamingo over his keyboard, mixing it up, throwing curves, yet also -- and more delicately -- torturing Jim with the messianic organ sounds that shriek in his ears. There is something of Merlin in Ray -- the alchemist knowing how to play Jim. And JIM -- "that sneaky silent lithe flowing flexing animal" -- ready at last to share both his body and his soul with the world, to live out the words of the Indian prophet... to lead. Ray looks over up from his board, catches Robby with a 'what's this?' look... They go with it, improvising... Jim clutching the mike tighter, seeking solace in its arms; it all hangs in the air as if he doesn't have any idea what he's going to say next. Pamela sensing something is coming... the AUDIENCE... Jerry... the go-go dancers... FLASH -- A FATHER'S FACE, any face, older, any man... FLASH -- A MOTHER'S FACE, any face, older, a woman As the AUDIENCE gasps, shocked, stunned... As the guitar hits a high, horrid reverb, JIM in slightly SLOW MOTION suddenly tightens his backbone as if electrocuted and shoots violently backwards, hitting the floor like a puppet cut from his string -- we sense Jim himself has crossed a barrier now, gone into yet another stage of his performance, a stage from which he can never return. Like the gunfighter who has killed his first man. RAY sees it instantly where it's going, hits the organ! Robbie and John follow. the instruments EXPLODE all at once trying to bury Jim in -- REVERSE IRIS on Jim -- feeling it now. The peyote. JIM's POV -- Pam irising out. This strange sound in his ears -- a rattle of an Indian gourd, similar to what we heard in the car in Arizona when Jim was a boy. Now a distant Indian drum beating. The beginning strains of THE END dribble in. They're all LAUGHING (strange noise) -- in a circle somewhere on the edge of a precipice in deep arroyos and magnificent rocks and cacti... A football huddle of faces - RAY, JOHN, ROBBIE, JIM -- the four DOORS... laughing with the first mad impulse of the peyote. PAM is vomiting her brains out as DOROTHY tries to comfort her on the edge of a cliff... Jim panthers up the dune. They hug. She throws up again. Jim holds his head. Feels the ride. JUMP CUTS: Jim and Pam are touching each other. Face. Shadows. Sand falls from Pam's hand. Jim turns to hawk at a bird. "Hawk! Hawk!" Then Pam is dancing alone on the dune. Abruptly Jim is back in the circle with the Doors in a sense torn between them and Pam. EXTREME CLOSEUPS of their faces, their eyes, the tensions of the trip tearing apart their teeth as they go from the laughing to the dangerous part. John shutters -- as does Robbie and Ray. Jim seems possessed. Pause. He has instilled a flux of fear in the group. Jim looking at her, smiles. Ray has his head buried in his hands. He takes Ray and Robbie's hands, his voice calming them, reform the circle. John hesitant. Not all will enter the gates at evening. Pulling John into the circle, bonding, their four heads sunk to the desert floor, Jim making wild Indian sounds, deep- throated "shoooh... shoooh"... now humming a song from the desert. The OTHERS join in his chant, the four rising and falling like a collective breath. Suddenly Jim breaks and rises out of the circle. Ray, Robbie, John, all looking at him. The same need. Pamela, the desperation of her eyes. He goes, his boots in the sand. Pamela calling from another dune, far away. His POV -- of her, receding. She screams for him. He's in pain. Cannot help her. A BIRD of prey in the sky. Jim moving across a lunar landscape. SPECIAL EFFECT: The sun is black like night or else white in a black sky. Voices in the distance. "Jim, where are you going?" A mother's voice, a father's voice. At the overturned truck, the bodies in the road... at the older Indian looking at him... finally at the dying Indian... his eyes. JIM bounds towards the crevice. Jim, thunderstruck, gaping. A gallery of ancient INDIAN PETROGLYPHS surround him on all sides. Curious, oblong figures, buffalo, sacred deer and bear, creatures of the hunt; hunters and their weapons, rain clouds, masked deities proclaiming the answers to the Mysteries, the story of Creation. Camera weaving up to see one of the faces of the deities -- staring at him from the wall -- an eagle's face... The sound of a rattle -- "shichishichi" -- he realizes he's being watched. By what? He whips his eyes everywhere. A large LIZARD perches on a boulder assesses him calmly, tatters of a former skin clinging to its throat, spits a forked tongue and drills its black pearly eyes into his skull... Now the sound of the Bull-Roarer, whipping the air, announcing the appearance of the shaman. Jim's struck with an overwhelming sense of... awe... ancient mysteries. He turns. The lizard is looking at him.

Who was a rock journalist with whom Jim participated in witchcraft?

Patricia Kennealy

The GHOST of the DEAD INDIAN is also looking at him. We are looking at JIM from its point of view -- a blur of light, some headdress, a sense of skins... music drops back, no lyrics... the voice is old, familiar, possible Spanish descent dialect or huararchi. The voice, the pretense, -- the glow too quickly fades -- leaving Jim so alone, not sure what he has heard, yet he knows he has heard, and he knows he has seen -- and once you have seen, it will never be the same again. His eyes. Camera pulling out from his eyes. There's something different tonight. Something in the air. His eyes are open, he's facing outward, gripping the mike for his life, hair falling in his face, dripping sweat, we sense all his soul concentrated in what he has to say. Cliques of GROUPIES have staked claims at the foot of the stage, eyes fucking him as he writhes, spreading his legs. Every twitch, every moment he sucks out the tension on the musical interludes generates a whip of a reaction in his audience. Nobody is moving in the club. The DANCERS are still, the GO GO GIRLS in their white plastic boots and dresses hang motionless in their gilded cages. Even the WAITRESSES have stopped, frozen with their trays, denying something is going to happen. PAMELA, DOROTHY... JERRY from the Fog, also the manager of this place, watches from the balcony, shaking his head, doesn't understand. Panning to two RECORD TYPES with him -- JAC HOLZMAN, distinguished six footer, suit, and PAUL ROTHCHILD, funky, pigtailed, ex-con, early 30s. The band has come together fully now. ROBBIE'S fingers sliding across the trembling strings, staring at the ceiling, wandering around the darkened portions of stage left, he feels Jim -- of a dying Indian on an Arizona highway -- then gone. A moment, only three, four beats. An optical illusion? Maybe. Or is it saying, 'now you are just a white man'... maybe not. As it drifts off in a cloud, into the vast audience's EYEBALL. He waits. INTERCUTS of the FACES in the crowd. Jim pulling his shirt off -- barechested -- waving it like a toreador in front of his leather crotch. The audience seems to be paying no attention to what he is doing or saying, which drives him to deeper rage. He saunters to the edge of the stage. Hisses at them. He clasps his crotch, leering at a cute LITTLE GIRL in the front row, shaking it at her. Her BOYFRIEND, pissed at Jim, runs for the stage. Jim unzips his leathers. He feigns opening his belt and exposing himself, flipping his shirt back and forth over the crotch in a mock striptease. A flock of TEENAGE GIRLS are sure they've seen it, hysterical. RAY starts playing BREAK ON THROUGH trying to keep things normal. JIM now out there in the arena in a CONGA LINE, doing his rain dance, hands on hips, the TEENAGERS forming a long snake behind him. The huge speaker columns teeter and fall. A corner of the STAGE now COLLAPSES from the weight, PEOPLE spilling on the floor, screams. The power console tips over next to DENSMORE. He bails. Manzarek and Krieger follow. The PROMOTER is yelling at SIDDONS about his insurance contract as the COPS and FBI AGENTS close in, looking for Jim. Who is out there leading his naked drunken FLOCK, hundreds of them in a phallic Pied Piper dance thru the darkened seaplane hanger. From BREAK ON THROUGH PART TWO: Ray watching from the corner of the echoes him back with his flamenco-blues guitar. JOHN on drums, reading Jim's moods, throws in the spontaneous and violent riffs that keep it savage. He literally tortures Jim's ears with his drums. And RAY, concentrated with his nodding head like a big flamingo over his keyboard, mixing it up, throwing curves, yet also -- and more delicately -- torturing Jim with the messianic organ sounds that shriek in his ears. There is something of Merlin in Ray -- the alchemist knowing how to play Jim. And JIM -- "that sneaky silent lithe flowing flexing animal" -- ready at last to share both his body and his soul with the world, to live out the words of the Indian prophet... to lead. Ray looks over up from his board, catches Robby with a 'what's this?' look... They go with it, improvising... Jim clutching the mike tighter, seeking solace in its arms; it all hangs in the air as if he doesn't have any idea what he's going to say next. Pamela sensing something is coming... the AUDIENCE... Jerry... the go-go dancers... FLASH -- A FATHER'S FACE, any face, older, any man... FLASH -- A MOTHER'S FACE, any face, older, a woman As the AUDIENCE gasps, shocked, stunned... As the guitar hits a high, horrid reverb, JIM in slightly SLOW MOTION suddenly tightens his backbone as if electrocuted and shoots violently backwards, hitting the floor like a puppet cut from his string -- we sense Jim himself has crossed a barrier now, gone into yet another stage of his performance, a stage from which he can never return. Like the gunfighter who has killed his first man. RAY sees it instantly where it's going, hits the organ! Robbie and John follow. the instruments EXPLODE all at once trying to bury Jim in on as the last absurdist images flicker off. Hissing and a big Bronx cheer summarize the feelings of the 100 odd STUDENTS crammed into a bunker-like theater. A youngish INSTRUCTOR stirs to the front row from a row of upset FACULTY. Hands shooting up to criticize. TRICK, BONES and JACK, three friends sitting next to Jim, shoot their hands up. A cacophony of voices, critics, emotions blend out over Jim's quiet eyes. He slows, a dramatic young lion pose, surveying the girls. The cronies wait, anticipating something inescapably evil to escape his lips. Camera moving to reveal JOHN DENSMORE wiry, solid on the drums... moving on to ROBBIE KRIEGER, wispy, ethereal looking, the youngest, flamenco-type moves on his early electric guitar. Also a HARMONICA PLAYER and a BASE. They all seem slightly embarrassed by either the cheap sound system feedback or Ray's warbling, but the crowd couldn't care less -- a German beerhall, they want noise and sex. JIM and his GANG, beers in hand, mouth back the words, beers everywhere shoved to the smokey ceiling, everyone on their feet, nuts with spring fever. Jim eyeing the GIRL next to him. The FOOTBALL TEAM TYPES edge over nearby, one of them picking out Jim with a glare. She looks puzzled by the suggestion. He evades the football man's grasp, elusive physicality. He hops over tables, heading for the stage. Other KIDS are up on the stage dancing, but Jim goes right up alongside RAY, shaking his hips like Elvis. Ray giving him the mike. Improv time. They love it. The place going wild. The girl with the football player wanting him. Jim slides her upstairs' door open, crawls in next to her bed. She's asleep with her boyfriend. He touches her toe. She awakes, startled. There's a crash. They turn each other. If Hieronymus Bosch had painted a rock concert, this would be it. Meanwhile, JOHN arguing with RAY and JIM who sways, drunk. The FBI agents get lost in the background. As JIM brings up a tiny vial with a lubricating head on it, holds it to Robbie's lips playfully. They're in the shadows. Something so sincere in Jim's eyes. Robbie takes the fatal lick. Jim smiles manically as the NUREMBERG SOUNDS of the CROWD drown them out. JIM spreading his arms like Icarus set to fly. The ROARS redouble, their FEET stomping out: COPS everywhere looking as... He lights it. The CROWD going nuts as the DOORS go into the ominous introductory strains of FIVE TO ONE trying to get the onus off Jim and the show on the road. The Audience knows the song, go into a primal FOOT STOMP with it. Bras are thrown on stage. Kids writhe madly in the primal Doors dance. People with SPARKLERS running through the hangar. CAMERA FLASHBULBS popping throughout the show... get Jim on film while you can. Jim, drunk, high, smoking the jay, won't go into the lyrics right off, forcing the Doors to circle the beat again. He jerks his hand back from the mike as if it were a hot wire. The Crowd yelling something. An INSANE TEENAGER stands on the railing of a balcony above the auditorium, poised to swan dive some 18 feet into the crowd. Which he now does, arms held out like wings. The Crowd yells, parting to allow his bulk to smack the floor. Pause. Cops rushing to the spot. The KID suddenly stands up, unhurt, with a stoned out look on his face. Then splits at a full run thru the crowd chased by the perplexed Cops. Everybody surging back towards

What criminal charges did Jim have brought against him at in Miami, FL?

Jim Morrison allegedly exposed himself on stage

in his mustang -- making a shakey, screeching curve at the bend of the beach. And he's gone. An ominous ROAR of an AIRPLANE above RAY. -- flying away. The ENGINEER, exhausted, doesn't feel anything funny. The poets face brightens. A small but ever-so-sweet smile of triumph hikes up the corners of his mouth. He stands, sways, than moves out of view. The empty bottle of whiskey, its sands run out, is left behind. As we FADE OUT, a hardy, mischievous Morrison laugh and a ripple of sensuous MUSIC carry us into the lilting, lamenting strains of AN AMERICAN PRAYER -- THE END without lyrics for now as we cut to: Looks at the time. Somewhere near dawn. The sounds of a bath being drawn. Nightmare or sleep? She tries to fade back to sleep but the MUSIC and the WHISPERING prod her, pull her awake... His face. At peace, as she sobs, the MUSIC cresting to Jim's lyrics. The MUSIC rolling up on: The AUDIENCE is out there somewhere in the dark -- we sense they too have become ghosts, as all of us will one day. The MUSIC continuing up to roll from AMERICAN PRAYER -- THE END -- snatches we annotate. Camera closing past the DOORS to JIM alone, circling the mike with his dance -- the INDIAN GHOSTMAN jigging, shaman- like, off to the side -- now levitating above the stage, all crazy, gawky dancing. The GHOST of the DEAD INDIAN is also looking at him. We are looking at JIM from its point of view -- a blur of light, some headdress, a sense of skins... music drops back, no lyrics... the voice is old, familiar, possible Spanish descent dialect or huararchi. The voice, the pretense, -- the glow too quickly fades -- leaving Jim so alone, not sure what he has heard, yet he knows he has heard, and he knows he has seen -- and once you have seen, it will never be the same again. His eyes. Camera pulling out from his eyes. There's something different tonight. Something in the air. His eyes are open, he's facing outward, gripping the mike for his life, hair falling in his face, dripping sweat, we sense all his soul concentrated in what he has to say. Cliques of GROUPIES have staked claims at the foot of the stage, eyes fucking him as he writhes, spreading his legs. Every twitch, every moment he sucks out the tension on the musical interludes generates a whip of a reaction in his audience. Nobody is moving in the club. The DANCERS are still, the GO GO GIRLS in their white plastic boots and dresses hang motionless in their gilded cages. Even the WAITRESSES have stopped, frozen with their trays, denying something is going to happen. PAMELA, DOROTHY... JERRY from the Fog, also the manager of this place, watches from the balcony, shaking his head, doesn't understand. Panning to two RECORD TYPES with him -- JAC HOLZMAN, distinguished six footer, suit, and PAUL ROTHCHILD, funky, pigtailed, ex-con, early 30s. The band has come together fully now. ROBBIE'S fingers sliding across the trembling strings, staring at the ceiling, wandering around the darkened portions of stage left, he feels Jim -- bristling. A COYOTE lurks under the sickly light of a streetlamp, pulling its head from an overstuffed garbage can, looking back at them. She breaks into sobs, seeking his arms. He hugs her. In the notebooks, at intervals during the conversation, we see powerful sketches colored in visionary hallucinogenic William Blake mode with writing between. Books are everywhere -- panning Kerouac, Ginsberg, Nietzsche, Rimbaud, Mailer, Artaud, mythological works, shamanistic books, a library of stolen ideas. Pam shivers, a strange thought. He runs his fingers thru her hair, kissing her gently. The panties coming off. Rousseau dangling from the Venice moon. He moves a little over excited, nervous, more awkward than we might expect. RAY MANZAREK is meditating in yoga posture, longer hair as well, in his post-graduate phase, sandals, colorful hippie shirt. But the meditation is not going well. He's shaking his head at himself, frowning. Jim has approached closer, amused, looking down. Ray opening his eyes -- his POV -- Jim, slouched, jacket over his shoulder, sun behind him. Jim has crouched, digging his hand in the sand. As the grains spill out of his fist he has his eyes closed. Ray pantomimes chords in the keyboard sand. All of a sudden we're in RAY'S POV -- a mystical moment. Jim singing, no sound, then pure song, unadulterated by atmosphere. Jim stops, shrugs. Ray looks at him a long beat. Intense eyes, the manner of a man who knows what he wants and cannot be stopped. Jim laughs, loves Ray's ardor as they move along the ocean side. As they walk off, the two of them along the edge of the Pacific. A dog jumping for a frisbee. The music of MOONLIGHT DRIVE now riffs over the real song now. JIM straining to make it work, jumping around violent, Randall Jahnson and Oliver Stone The ENGINEER waits in the booth, lit, alert man, bored, fiddling... Camera moving tentatively along the shadows, discovering the sidelight on a Navy surplus pea jacket thrown on a chair; moving to a candle's orange flutter on pages written with verse... a hand breaking the seal of the bottle of Irish Bushmill's whiskey. They might drop a bit more... Camera crawling past the FINGERS weaving a new cigarette out of the Marlboro pack. An ashtray full of butts... and an asthmatic horrid cough, filled with phlegm... crawling up the slight paunch in the bright jersey with #66 on it... stitched on the sleeve is the team mascot -- an American Indian in full headdress. Camera revealing JAMES DOUGLAS MORRISON, -- 27, poet, buried in the shadows, curls of cigarette smoke about his haunted sensuous eyes, meditative lips scragged with beard and long greasy hair, not a pretty sight, yet a man full and bold and struggling for survival through his words... beneath the Bushmill moon, he takes the tambourine and shakes it violently in our face He shakes a TAMBOURINE at the mike and one of his sudden giant Indian YELLS rock through the studio. The GRIN on Jim's face magnesium flares out to: GRANDMA & GRANDAD in the back with JIM, about 4 and his SISTER, 3 asleep. Mom's a beauty and Dad's an austere handsome military man in civilian clothes, mouthing words -- look, wake them up, a desert storm... but we barely hear A LIGHTNING BOLT shreds the blue sky with a thunderous sound, frightening dawn of creation... Grandma nudging Jim awake. His eyes open -- Just as the car turns the bend -- revealing An overturned TRUCK lying in the road -- dead and wounded INDIANS everywhere... A cop car, ambulance. the stage as JIM looses one of his primal SCREAMS. He slobbers, drunk, slouches, stumbles, regains his balance. The Crowd loves it, but Ray senses something wrong. Robbie starts to feel the effects of the acid Jim gave him -- his eyes registering fear. During the instrumental break, Jim picks up one of the roses from the floor, pokes it at John on the drums, who whacks it to death on his skins. Jim starts to whirl the mike cord like a slingshot or bolo, in an ever-widening arc... ...it flies off and smashes into the head of the PROMOTER at the edge of the stage arguing with SIDDONS. The man is staggered, weaving, Siddons helping him to a FIRST AID TEAM. PHOTOGRAPHERS flashing cameras. BAKER urging him on from the wings as he passes out. A GIRL runs onto the stage, dumps a bottle of champagne on Jim's head. Jim takes his shirt off, soaking wet. The CROWD is also stripping in the heat, shirts, blouses, screaming so much now they are obviously way past listening to any song. It has become a view of the future -- the NAKED GIRL and BOY dancing stark naked drugged out in the middle of it all, the FAT GIRL prowling naked on the edge of the stage before she's arrested, the FIGHTS in the Crowd, fists, blood, a black man chased and beaten, the sense of Altamont here, the hippie flower trip gone to shit -- it's all come down here tonight, the end of an era. He stops singing suddenly, squinting out into the madness. The arena echoes with the uncomprehending chant of the Mob... SPECIAL EFFECT -- the INDIAN GHOST is leaving Jim's body -- spectrally moving off him, hovering there in the air, its eyes -- the face

Who was pregnant with Jim Morrison's child?

Patricia Kenneally

in his mustang -- making a shakey, screeching curve at the bend of the beach. And he's gone. An ominous ROAR of an AIRPLANE above RAY. -- flying away. The ENGINEER, exhausted, doesn't feel anything funny. The poets face brightens. A small but ever-so-sweet smile of triumph hikes up the corners of his mouth. He stands, sways, than moves out of view. The empty bottle of whiskey, its sands run out, is left behind. As we FADE OUT, a hardy, mischievous Morrison laugh and a ripple of sensuous MUSIC carry us into the lilting, lamenting strains of AN AMERICAN PRAYER -- THE END without lyrics for now as we cut to: Looks at the time. Somewhere near dawn. The sounds of a bath being drawn. Nightmare or sleep? She tries to fade back to sleep but the MUSIC and the WHISPERING prod her, pull her awake... His face. At peace, as she sobs, the MUSIC cresting to Jim's lyrics. The MUSIC rolling up on: The AUDIENCE is out there somewhere in the dark -- we sense they too have become ghosts, as all of us will one day. The MUSIC continuing up to roll from AMERICAN PRAYER -- THE END -- snatches we annotate. Camera closing past the DOORS to JIM alone, circling the mike with his dance -- the INDIAN GHOSTMAN jigging, shaman- like, off to the side -- now levitating above the stage, all crazy, gawky dancing. bristling. A COYOTE lurks under the sickly light of a streetlamp, pulling its head from an overstuffed garbage can, looking back at them. She breaks into sobs, seeking his arms. He hugs her. In the notebooks, at intervals during the conversation, we see powerful sketches colored in visionary hallucinogenic William Blake mode with writing between. Books are everywhere -- panning Kerouac, Ginsberg, Nietzsche, Rimbaud, Mailer, Artaud, mythological works, shamanistic books, a library of stolen ideas. Pam shivers, a strange thought. He runs his fingers thru her hair, kissing her gently. The panties coming off. Rousseau dangling from the Venice moon. He moves a little over excited, nervous, more awkward than we might expect. RAY MANZAREK is meditating in yoga posture, longer hair as well, in his post-graduate phase, sandals, colorful hippie shirt. But the meditation is not going well. He's shaking his head at himself, frowning. Jim has approached closer, amused, looking down. Ray opening his eyes -- his POV -- Jim, slouched, jacket over his shoulder, sun behind him. Jim has crouched, digging his hand in the sand. As the grains spill out of his fist he has his eyes closed. Ray pantomimes chords in the keyboard sand. All of a sudden we're in RAY'S POV -- a mystical moment. Jim singing, no sound, then pure song, unadulterated by atmosphere. Jim stops, shrugs. Ray looks at him a long beat. Intense eyes, the manner of a man who knows what he wants and cannot be stopped. Jim laughs, loves Ray's ardor as they move along the ocean side. As they walk off, the two of them along the edge of the Pacific. A dog jumping for a frisbee. The music of MOONLIGHT DRIVE now riffs over the real song now. JIM straining to make it work, jumping around violent, of a dying Indian on an Arizona highway -- then gone. A moment, only three, four beats. An optical illusion? Maybe. Or is it saying, 'now you are just a white man'... maybe not. As it drifts off in a cloud, into the vast audience's EYEBALL. He waits. INTERCUTS of the FACES in the crowd. Jim pulling his shirt off -- barechested -- waving it like a toreador in front of his leather crotch. The audience seems to be paying no attention to what he is doing or saying, which drives him to deeper rage. He saunters to the edge of the stage. Hisses at them. He clasps his crotch, leering at a cute LITTLE GIRL in the front row, shaking it at her. Her BOYFRIEND, pissed at Jim, runs for the stage. Jim unzips his leathers. He feigns opening his belt and exposing himself, flipping his shirt back and forth over the crotch in a mock striptease. A flock of TEENAGE GIRLS are sure they've seen it, hysterical. RAY starts playing BREAK ON THROUGH trying to keep things normal. JIM now out there in the arena in a CONGA LINE, doing his rain dance, hands on hips, the TEENAGERS forming a long snake behind him. The huge speaker columns teeter and fall. A corner of the STAGE now COLLAPSES from the weight, PEOPLE spilling on the floor, screams. The power console tips over next to DENSMORE. He bails. Manzarek and Krieger follow. The PROMOTER is yelling at SIDDONS about his insurance contract as the COPS and FBI AGENTS close in, looking for Jim. Who is out there leading his naked drunken FLOCK, hundreds of them in a phallic Pied Piper dance thru the darkened seaplane hanger. From BREAK ON THROUGH PART TWO: Ray watching from the corner of the the stage as JIM looses one of his primal SCREAMS. He slobbers, drunk, slouches, stumbles, regains his balance. The Crowd loves it, but Ray senses something wrong. Robbie starts to feel the effects of the acid Jim gave him -- his eyes registering fear. During the instrumental break, Jim picks up one of the roses from the floor, pokes it at John on the drums, who whacks it to death on his skins. Jim starts to whirl the mike cord like a slingshot or bolo, in an ever-widening arc... ...it flies off and smashes into the head of the PROMOTER at the edge of the stage arguing with SIDDONS. The man is staggered, weaving, Siddons helping him to a FIRST AID TEAM. PHOTOGRAPHERS flashing cameras. BAKER urging him on from the wings as he passes out. A GIRL runs onto the stage, dumps a bottle of champagne on Jim's head. Jim takes his shirt off, soaking wet. The CROWD is also stripping in the heat, shirts, blouses, screaming so much now they are obviously way past listening to any song. It has become a view of the future -- the NAKED GIRL and BOY dancing stark naked drugged out in the middle of it all, the FAT GIRL prowling naked on the edge of the stage before she's arrested, the FIGHTS in the Crowd, fists, blood, a black man chased and beaten, the sense of Altamont here, the hippie flower trip gone to shit -- it's all come down here tonight, the end of an era. He stops singing suddenly, squinting out into the madness. The arena echoes with the uncomprehending chant of the Mob... SPECIAL EFFECT -- the INDIAN GHOST is leaving Jim's body -- spectrally moving off him, hovering there in the air, its eyes -- the face The GHOST of the DEAD INDIAN is also looking at him. We are looking at JIM from its point of view -- a blur of light, some headdress, a sense of skins... music drops back, no lyrics... the voice is old, familiar, possible Spanish descent dialect or huararchi. The voice, the pretense, -- the glow too quickly fades -- leaving Jim so alone, not sure what he has heard, yet he knows he has heard, and he knows he has seen -- and once you have seen, it will never be the same again. His eyes. Camera pulling out from his eyes. There's something different tonight. Something in the air. His eyes are open, he's facing outward, gripping the mike for his life, hair falling in his face, dripping sweat, we sense all his soul concentrated in what he has to say. Cliques of GROUPIES have staked claims at the foot of the stage, eyes fucking him as he writhes, spreading his legs. Every twitch, every moment he sucks out the tension on the musical interludes generates a whip of a reaction in his audience. Nobody is moving in the club. The DANCERS are still, the GO GO GIRLS in their white plastic boots and dresses hang motionless in their gilded cages. Even the WAITRESSES have stopped, frozen with their trays, denying something is going to happen. PAMELA, DOROTHY... JERRY from the Fog, also the manager of this place, watches from the balcony, shaking his head, doesn't understand. Panning to two RECORD TYPES with him -- JAC HOLZMAN, distinguished six footer, suit, and PAUL ROTHCHILD, funky, pigtailed, ex-con, early 30s. The band has come together fully now. ROBBIE'S fingers sliding across the trembling strings, staring at the ceiling, wandering around the darkened portions of stage left, he feels Jim --

Where did Pamela Courson find Jim Morrison dead in 1971?

In a bathtub in Paris, France

in his mustang -- making a shakey, screeching curve at the bend of the beach. And he's gone. An ominous ROAR of an AIRPLANE above RAY. -- flying away. The ENGINEER, exhausted, doesn't feel anything funny. The poets face brightens. A small but ever-so-sweet smile of triumph hikes up the corners of his mouth. He stands, sways, than moves out of view. The empty bottle of whiskey, its sands run out, is left behind. As we FADE OUT, a hardy, mischievous Morrison laugh and a ripple of sensuous MUSIC carry us into the lilting, lamenting strains of AN AMERICAN PRAYER -- THE END without lyrics for now as we cut to: Looks at the time. Somewhere near dawn. The sounds of a bath being drawn. Nightmare or sleep? She tries to fade back to sleep but the MUSIC and the WHISPERING prod her, pull her awake... His face. At peace, as she sobs, the MUSIC cresting to Jim's lyrics. The MUSIC rolling up on: The AUDIENCE is out there somewhere in the dark -- we sense they too have become ghosts, as all of us will one day. The MUSIC continuing up to roll from AMERICAN PRAYER -- THE END -- snatches we annotate. Camera closing past the DOORS to JIM alone, circling the mike with his dance -- the INDIAN GHOSTMAN jigging, shaman- like, off to the side -- now levitating above the stage, all crazy, gawky dancing. of a dying Indian on an Arizona highway -- then gone. A moment, only three, four beats. An optical illusion? Maybe. Or is it saying, 'now you are just a white man'... maybe not. As it drifts off in a cloud, into the vast audience's EYEBALL. He waits. INTERCUTS of the FACES in the crowd. Jim pulling his shirt off -- barechested -- waving it like a toreador in front of his leather crotch. The audience seems to be paying no attention to what he is doing or saying, which drives him to deeper rage. He saunters to the edge of the stage. Hisses at them. He clasps his crotch, leering at a cute LITTLE GIRL in the front row, shaking it at her. Her BOYFRIEND, pissed at Jim, runs for the stage. Jim unzips his leathers. He feigns opening his belt and exposing himself, flipping his shirt back and forth over the crotch in a mock striptease. A flock of TEENAGE GIRLS are sure they've seen it, hysterical. RAY starts playing BREAK ON THROUGH trying to keep things normal. JIM now out there in the arena in a CONGA LINE, doing his rain dance, hands on hips, the TEENAGERS forming a long snake behind him. The huge speaker columns teeter and fall. A corner of the STAGE now COLLAPSES from the weight, PEOPLE spilling on the floor, screams. The power console tips over next to DENSMORE. He bails. Manzarek and Krieger follow. The PROMOTER is yelling at SIDDONS about his insurance contract as the COPS and FBI AGENTS close in, looking for Jim. Who is out there leading his naked drunken FLOCK, hundreds of them in a phallic Pied Piper dance thru the darkened seaplane hanger. From BREAK ON THROUGH PART TWO: Ray watching from the corner of the each other. If Hieronymus Bosch had painted a rock concert, this would be it. Meanwhile, JOHN arguing with RAY and JIM who sways, drunk. The FBI agents get lost in the background. As JIM brings up a tiny vial with a lubricating head on it, holds it to Robbie's lips playfully. They're in the shadows. Something so sincere in Jim's eyes. Robbie takes the fatal lick. Jim smiles manically as the NUREMBERG SOUNDS of the CROWD drown them out. JIM spreading his arms like Icarus set to fly. The ROARS redouble, their FEET stomping out: COPS everywhere looking as... He lights it. The CROWD going nuts as the DOORS go into the ominous introductory strains of FIVE TO ONE trying to get the onus off Jim and the show on the road. The Audience knows the song, go into a primal FOOT STOMP with it. Bras are thrown on stage. Kids writhe madly in the primal Doors dance. People with SPARKLERS running through the hangar. CAMERA FLASHBULBS popping throughout the show... get Jim on film while you can. Jim, drunk, high, smoking the jay, won't go into the lyrics right off, forcing the Doors to circle the beat again. He jerks his hand back from the mike as if it were a hot wire. The Crowd yelling something. An INSANE TEENAGER stands on the railing of a balcony above the auditorium, poised to swan dive some 18 feet into the crowd. Which he now does, arms held out like wings. The Crowd yells, parting to allow his bulk to smack the floor. Pause. Cops rushing to the spot. The KID suddenly stands up, unhurt, with a stoned out look on his face. Then splits at a full run thru the crowd chased by the perplexed Cops. Everybody surging back towards bristling. A COYOTE lurks under the sickly light of a streetlamp, pulling its head from an overstuffed garbage can, looking back at them. She breaks into sobs, seeking his arms. He hugs her. In the notebooks, at intervals during the conversation, we see powerful sketches colored in visionary hallucinogenic William Blake mode with writing between. Books are everywhere -- panning Kerouac, Ginsberg, Nietzsche, Rimbaud, Mailer, Artaud, mythological works, shamanistic books, a library of stolen ideas. Pam shivers, a strange thought. He runs his fingers thru her hair, kissing her gently. The panties coming off. Rousseau dangling from the Venice moon. He moves a little over excited, nervous, more awkward than we might expect. RAY MANZAREK is meditating in yoga posture, longer hair as well, in his post-graduate phase, sandals, colorful hippie shirt. But the meditation is not going well. He's shaking his head at himself, frowning. Jim has approached closer, amused, looking down. Ray opening his eyes -- his POV -- Jim, slouched, jacket over his shoulder, sun behind him. Jim has crouched, digging his hand in the sand. As the grains spill out of his fist he has his eyes closed. Ray pantomimes chords in the keyboard sand. All of a sudden we're in RAY'S POV -- a mystical moment. Jim singing, no sound, then pure song, unadulterated by atmosphere. Jim stops, shrugs. Ray looks at him a long beat. Intense eyes, the manner of a man who knows what he wants and cannot be stopped. Jim laughs, loves Ray's ardor as they move along the ocean side. As they walk off, the two of them along the edge of the Pacific. A dog jumping for a frisbee. The music of MOONLIGHT DRIVE now riffs over the real song now. JIM straining to make it work, jumping around violent, the stage as JIM looses one of his primal SCREAMS. He slobbers, drunk, slouches, stumbles, regains his balance. The Crowd loves it, but Ray senses something wrong. Robbie starts to feel the effects of the acid Jim gave him -- his eyes registering fear. During the instrumental break, Jim picks up one of the roses from the floor, pokes it at John on the drums, who whacks it to death on his skins. Jim starts to whirl the mike cord like a slingshot or bolo, in an ever-widening arc... ...it flies off and smashes into the head of the PROMOTER at the edge of the stage arguing with SIDDONS. The man is staggered, weaving, Siddons helping him to a FIRST AID TEAM. PHOTOGRAPHERS flashing cameras. BAKER urging him on from the wings as he passes out. A GIRL runs onto the stage, dumps a bottle of champagne on Jim's head. Jim takes his shirt off, soaking wet. The CROWD is also stripping in the heat, shirts, blouses, screaming so much now they are obviously way past listening to any song. It has become a view of the future -- the NAKED GIRL and BOY dancing stark naked drugged out in the middle of it all, the FAT GIRL prowling naked on the edge of the stage before she's arrested, the FIGHTS in the Crowd, fists, blood, a black man chased and beaten, the sense of Altamont here, the hippie flower trip gone to shit -- it's all come down here tonight, the end of an era. He stops singing suddenly, squinting out into the madness. The arena echoes with the uncomprehending chant of the Mob... SPECIAL EFFECT -- the INDIAN GHOST is leaving Jim's body -- spectrally moving off him, hovering there in the air, its eyes -- the face

What is the name of the night club in Los Angeles where the Doors grew their fan base?

Whiskey a Go Go

The GHOST of the DEAD INDIAN is also looking at him. We are looking at JIM from its point of view -- a blur of light, some headdress, a sense of skins... music drops back, no lyrics... the voice is old, familiar, possible Spanish descent dialect or huararchi. The voice, the pretense, -- the glow too quickly fades -- leaving Jim so alone, not sure what he has heard, yet he knows he has heard, and he knows he has seen -- and once you have seen, it will never be the same again. His eyes. Camera pulling out from his eyes. There's something different tonight. Something in the air. His eyes are open, he's facing outward, gripping the mike for his life, hair falling in his face, dripping sweat, we sense all his soul concentrated in what he has to say. Cliques of GROUPIES have staked claims at the foot of the stage, eyes fucking him as he writhes, spreading his legs. Every twitch, every moment he sucks out the tension on the musical interludes generates a whip of a reaction in his audience. Nobody is moving in the club. The DANCERS are still, the GO GO GIRLS in their white plastic boots and dresses hang motionless in their gilded cages. Even the WAITRESSES have stopped, frozen with their trays, denying something is going to happen. PAMELA, DOROTHY... JERRY from the Fog, also the manager of this place, watches from the balcony, shaking his head, doesn't understand. Panning to two RECORD TYPES with him -- JAC HOLZMAN, distinguished six footer, suit, and PAUL ROTHCHILD, funky, pigtailed, ex-con, early 30s. The band has come together fully now. ROBBIE'S fingers sliding across the trembling strings, staring at the ceiling, wandering around the darkened portions of stage left, he feels Jim -- now humming a song from the desert. The OTHERS join in his chant, the four rising and falling like a collective breath. Suddenly Jim breaks and rises out of the circle. Ray, Robbie, John, all looking at him. The same need. Pamela, the desperation of her eyes. He goes, his boots in the sand. Pamela calling from another dune, far away. His POV -- of her, receding. She screams for him. He's in pain. Cannot help her. A BIRD of prey in the sky. Jim moving across a lunar landscape. SPECIAL EFFECT: The sun is black like night or else white in a black sky. Voices in the distance. "Jim, where are you going?" A mother's voice, a father's voice. At the overturned truck, the bodies in the road... at the older Indian looking at him... finally at the dying Indian... his eyes. JIM bounds towards the crevice. Jim, thunderstruck, gaping. A gallery of ancient INDIAN PETROGLYPHS surround him on all sides. Curious, oblong figures, buffalo, sacred deer and bear, creatures of the hunt; hunters and their weapons, rain clouds, masked deities proclaiming the answers to the Mysteries, the story of Creation. Camera weaving up to see one of the faces of the deities -- staring at him from the wall -- an eagle's face... The sound of a rattle -- "shichishichi" -- he realizes he's being watched. By what? He whips his eyes everywhere. A large LIZARD perches on a boulder assesses him calmly, tatters of a former skin clinging to its throat, spits a forked tongue and drills its black pearly eyes into his skull... Now the sound of the Bull-Roarer, whipping the air, announcing the appearance of the shaman. Jim's struck with an overwhelming sense of... awe... ancient mysteries. He turns. The lizard is looking at him. bristling. A COYOTE lurks under the sickly light of a streetlamp, pulling its head from an overstuffed garbage can, looking back at them. She breaks into sobs, seeking his arms. He hugs her. In the notebooks, at intervals during the conversation, we see powerful sketches colored in visionary hallucinogenic William Blake mode with writing between. Books are everywhere -- panning Kerouac, Ginsberg, Nietzsche, Rimbaud, Mailer, Artaud, mythological works, shamanistic books, a library of stolen ideas. Pam shivers, a strange thought. He runs his fingers thru her hair, kissing her gently. The panties coming off. Rousseau dangling from the Venice moon. He moves a little over excited, nervous, more awkward than we might expect. RAY MANZAREK is meditating in yoga posture, longer hair as well, in his post-graduate phase, sandals, colorful hippie shirt. But the meditation is not going well. He's shaking his head at himself, frowning. Jim has approached closer, amused, looking down. Ray opening his eyes -- his POV -- Jim, slouched, jacket over his shoulder, sun behind him. Jim has crouched, digging his hand in the sand. As the grains spill out of his fist he has his eyes closed. Ray pantomimes chords in the keyboard sand. All of a sudden we're in RAY'S POV -- a mystical moment. Jim singing, no sound, then pure song, unadulterated by atmosphere. Jim stops, shrugs. Ray looks at him a long beat. Intense eyes, the manner of a man who knows what he wants and cannot be stopped. Jim laughs, loves Ray's ardor as they move along the ocean side. As they walk off, the two of them along the edge of the Pacific. A dog jumping for a frisbee. The music of MOONLIGHT DRIVE now riffs over the real song now. JIM straining to make it work, jumping around violent, echoes him back with his flamenco-blues guitar. JOHN on drums, reading Jim's moods, throws in the spontaneous and violent riffs that keep it savage. He literally tortures Jim's ears with his drums. And RAY, concentrated with his nodding head like a big flamingo over his keyboard, mixing it up, throwing curves, yet also -- and more delicately -- torturing Jim with the messianic organ sounds that shriek in his ears. There is something of Merlin in Ray -- the alchemist knowing how to play Jim. And JIM -- "that sneaky silent lithe flowing flexing animal" -- ready at last to share both his body and his soul with the world, to live out the words of the Indian prophet... to lead. Ray looks over up from his board, catches Robby with a 'what's this?' look... They go with it, improvising... Jim clutching the mike tighter, seeking solace in its arms; it all hangs in the air as if he doesn't have any idea what he's going to say next. Pamela sensing something is coming... the AUDIENCE... Jerry... the go-go dancers... FLASH -- A FATHER'S FACE, any face, older, any man... FLASH -- A MOTHER'S FACE, any face, older, a woman As the AUDIENCE gasps, shocked, stunned... As the guitar hits a high, horrid reverb, JIM in slightly SLOW MOTION suddenly tightens his backbone as if electrocuted and shoots violently backwards, hitting the floor like a puppet cut from his string -- we sense Jim himself has crossed a barrier now, gone into yet another stage of his performance, a stage from which he can never return. Like the gunfighter who has killed his first man. RAY sees it instantly where it's going, hits the organ! Robbie and John follow. the instruments EXPLODE all at once trying to bury Jim in of a dying Indian on an Arizona highway -- then gone. A moment, only three, four beats. An optical illusion? Maybe. Or is it saying, 'now you are just a white man'... maybe not. As it drifts off in a cloud, into the vast audience's EYEBALL. He waits. INTERCUTS of the FACES in the crowd. Jim pulling his shirt off -- barechested -- waving it like a toreador in front of his leather crotch. The audience seems to be paying no attention to what he is doing or saying, which drives him to deeper rage. He saunters to the edge of the stage. Hisses at them. He clasps his crotch, leering at a cute LITTLE GIRL in the front row, shaking it at her. Her BOYFRIEND, pissed at Jim, runs for the stage. Jim unzips his leathers. He feigns opening his belt and exposing himself, flipping his shirt back and forth over the crotch in a mock striptease. A flock of TEENAGE GIRLS are sure they've seen it, hysterical. RAY starts playing BREAK ON THROUGH trying to keep things normal. JIM now out there in the arena in a CONGA LINE, doing his rain dance, hands on hips, the TEENAGERS forming a long snake behind him. The huge speaker columns teeter and fall. A corner of the STAGE now COLLAPSES from the weight, PEOPLE spilling on the floor, screams. The power console tips over next to DENSMORE. He bails. Manzarek and Krieger follow. The PROMOTER is yelling at SIDDONS about his insurance contract as the COPS and FBI AGENTS close in, looking for Jim. Who is out there leading his naked drunken FLOCK, hundreds of them in a phallic Pied Piper dance thru the darkened seaplane hanger. From BREAK ON THROUGH PART TWO: Ray watching from the corner of the

What self-image does Jim become increasingly obsessed with?

"The Lizard King"

in his mustang -- making a shakey, screeching curve at the bend of the beach. And he's gone. An ominous ROAR of an AIRPLANE above RAY. -- flying away. The ENGINEER, exhausted, doesn't feel anything funny. The poets face brightens. A small but ever-so-sweet smile of triumph hikes up the corners of his mouth. He stands, sways, than moves out of view. The empty bottle of whiskey, its sands run out, is left behind. As we FADE OUT, a hardy, mischievous Morrison laugh and a ripple of sensuous MUSIC carry us into the lilting, lamenting strains of AN AMERICAN PRAYER -- THE END without lyrics for now as we cut to: Looks at the time. Somewhere near dawn. The sounds of a bath being drawn. Nightmare or sleep? She tries to fade back to sleep but the MUSIC and the WHISPERING prod her, pull her awake... His face. At peace, as she sobs, the MUSIC cresting to Jim's lyrics. The MUSIC rolling up on: The AUDIENCE is out there somewhere in the dark -- we sense they too have become ghosts, as all of us will one day. The MUSIC continuing up to roll from AMERICAN PRAYER -- THE END -- snatches we annotate. Camera closing past the DOORS to JIM alone, circling the mike with his dance -- the INDIAN GHOSTMAN jigging, shaman- like, off to the side -- now levitating above the stage, all crazy, gawky dancing. on as the last absurdist images flicker off. Hissing and a big Bronx cheer summarize the feelings of the 100 odd STUDENTS crammed into a bunker-like theater. A youngish INSTRUCTOR stirs to the front row from a row of upset FACULTY. Hands shooting up to criticize. TRICK, BONES and JACK, three friends sitting next to Jim, shoot their hands up. A cacophony of voices, critics, emotions blend out over Jim's quiet eyes. He slows, a dramatic young lion pose, surveying the girls. The cronies wait, anticipating something inescapably evil to escape his lips. Camera moving to reveal JOHN DENSMORE wiry, solid on the drums... moving on to ROBBIE KRIEGER, wispy, ethereal looking, the youngest, flamenco-type moves on his early electric guitar. Also a HARMONICA PLAYER and a BASE. They all seem slightly embarrassed by either the cheap sound system feedback or Ray's warbling, but the crowd couldn't care less -- a German beerhall, they want noise and sex. JIM and his GANG, beers in hand, mouth back the words, beers everywhere shoved to the smokey ceiling, everyone on their feet, nuts with spring fever. Jim eyeing the GIRL next to him. The FOOTBALL TEAM TYPES edge over nearby, one of them picking out Jim with a glare. She looks puzzled by the suggestion. He evades the football man's grasp, elusive physicality. He hops over tables, heading for the stage. Other KIDS are up on the stage dancing, but Jim goes right up alongside RAY, shaking his hips like Elvis. Ray giving him the mike. Improv time. They love it. The place going wild. The girl with the football player wanting him. Jim slides her upstairs' door open, crawls in next to her bed. She's asleep with her boyfriend. He touches her toe. She awakes, startled. There's a crash. They turn of a dying Indian on an Arizona highway -- then gone. A moment, only three, four beats. An optical illusion? Maybe. Or is it saying, 'now you are just a white man'... maybe not. As it drifts off in a cloud, into the vast audience's EYEBALL. He waits. INTERCUTS of the FACES in the crowd. Jim pulling his shirt off -- barechested -- waving it like a toreador in front of his leather crotch. The audience seems to be paying no attention to what he is doing or saying, which drives him to deeper rage. He saunters to the edge of the stage. Hisses at them. He clasps his crotch, leering at a cute LITTLE GIRL in the front row, shaking it at her. Her BOYFRIEND, pissed at Jim, runs for the stage. Jim unzips his leathers. He feigns opening his belt and exposing himself, flipping his shirt back and forth over the crotch in a mock striptease. A flock of TEENAGE GIRLS are sure they've seen it, hysterical. RAY starts playing BREAK ON THROUGH trying to keep things normal. JIM now out there in the arena in a CONGA LINE, doing his rain dance, hands on hips, the TEENAGERS forming a long snake behind him. The huge speaker columns teeter and fall. A corner of the STAGE now COLLAPSES from the weight, PEOPLE spilling on the floor, screams. The power console tips over next to DENSMORE. He bails. Manzarek and Krieger follow. The PROMOTER is yelling at SIDDONS about his insurance contract as the COPS and FBI AGENTS close in, looking for Jim. Who is out there leading his naked drunken FLOCK, hundreds of them in a phallic Pied Piper dance thru the darkened seaplane hanger. From BREAK ON THROUGH PART TWO: Ray watching from the corner of the his primal unmistakeable scream. The CLUB in shock. Tribal taboo broken in one instant. Jerry exploding off the balcony toward the stage... Pamela, extremely moved and impressed, and Dorothy... the go- go girls, as jaded as they come, are stunned tension... the groupies love it. Jim has jumped up now, dancing an Indian war dance around the mike. Jerry pinning Jim to the wall, Lost in the melee, RAY and JOHN springing Jim back from likely death JAC HOLZMAN pushing past to Ray. Pamela separating Jim visually from Jerry. Holzman pauses, a dramatic presence, six foot two, impeccably dressed, he knows the weight of his words. It hangs there. Impossible words. John and Robbie sharing looks. Strains of LIGHT MY FIRE cross the cut. Camera moving fast thru the control room, past the ENGINEER (BRUCE BOTNICK), taciturn, 20's, the PRODUCER (PAUL ROTHCHILD) in pig heaven, and the owner JAC HOLZMAN in his blue suit watching. Camera moving fast past a smiling PAM watching, out to the DOORS on the floor, jamming... on to JIM in the vocal booth, headphone to his ears. The song, now fully -- orchestrated, rolling on over the following MONTAGE: A staged 16mm. grainy shot of JIM and PAMELA, RAY and DOROTHY, JOHN, ROBBIE and their TWO NEW GIRLFRIENDS wandering thru the CROWD sharing the spirit. Pam and Jim fool around -- laughing -- tickling each other for the home movie camera shot by Ray... Pam is goofy, makes funny faces, teases him running a flower under his nose, thru his hair, then trips him. He chases her across the lawn. JIM swandives into the stoned crowd with the mike at the instrumental section, a colored spotlight flecking him, GIRLS kiss him. The guys want to be him, the girls want him -- and he knows echoes him back with his flamenco-blues guitar. JOHN on drums, reading Jim's moods, throws in the spontaneous and violent riffs that keep it savage. He literally tortures Jim's ears with his drums. And RAY, concentrated with his nodding head like a big flamingo over his keyboard, mixing it up, throwing curves, yet also -- and more delicately -- torturing Jim with the messianic organ sounds that shriek in his ears. There is something of Merlin in Ray -- the alchemist knowing how to play Jim. And JIM -- "that sneaky silent lithe flowing flexing animal" -- ready at last to share both his body and his soul with the world, to live out the words of the Indian prophet... to lead. Ray looks over up from his board, catches Robby with a 'what's this?' look... They go with it, improvising... Jim clutching the mike tighter, seeking solace in its arms; it all hangs in the air as if he doesn't have any idea what he's going to say next. Pamela sensing something is coming... the AUDIENCE... Jerry... the go-go dancers... FLASH -- A FATHER'S FACE, any face, older, any man... FLASH -- A MOTHER'S FACE, any face, older, a woman As the AUDIENCE gasps, shocked, stunned... As the guitar hits a high, horrid reverb, JIM in slightly SLOW MOTION suddenly tightens his backbone as if electrocuted and shoots violently backwards, hitting the floor like a puppet cut from his string -- we sense Jim himself has crossed a barrier now, gone into yet another stage of his performance, a stage from which he can never return. Like the gunfighter who has killed his first man. RAY sees it instantly where it's going, hits the organ! Robbie and John follow. the instruments EXPLODE all at once trying to bury Jim in

What did Jim do during a Miami concert that was thought to be a low point for the band?

Jim allegedly exposed himself on stage

in his mustang -- making a shakey, screeching curve at the bend of the beach. And he's gone. An ominous ROAR of an AIRPLANE above RAY. -- flying away. The ENGINEER, exhausted, doesn't feel anything funny. The poets face brightens. A small but ever-so-sweet smile of triumph hikes up the corners of his mouth. He stands, sways, than moves out of view. The empty bottle of whiskey, its sands run out, is left behind. As we FADE OUT, a hardy, mischievous Morrison laugh and a ripple of sensuous MUSIC carry us into the lilting, lamenting strains of AN AMERICAN PRAYER -- THE END without lyrics for now as we cut to: Looks at the time. Somewhere near dawn. The sounds of a bath being drawn. Nightmare or sleep? She tries to fade back to sleep but the MUSIC and the WHISPERING prod her, pull her awake... His face. At peace, as she sobs, the MUSIC cresting to Jim's lyrics. The MUSIC rolling up on: The AUDIENCE is out there somewhere in the dark -- we sense they too have become ghosts, as all of us will one day. The MUSIC continuing up to roll from AMERICAN PRAYER -- THE END -- snatches we annotate. Camera closing past the DOORS to JIM alone, circling the mike with his dance -- the INDIAN GHOSTMAN jigging, shaman- like, off to the side -- now levitating above the stage, all crazy, gawky dancing. The GHOST of the DEAD INDIAN is also looking at him. We are looking at JIM from its point of view -- a blur of light, some headdress, a sense of skins... music drops back, no lyrics... the voice is old, familiar, possible Spanish descent dialect or huararchi. The voice, the pretense, -- the glow too quickly fades -- leaving Jim so alone, not sure what he has heard, yet he knows he has heard, and he knows he has seen -- and once you have seen, it will never be the same again. His eyes. Camera pulling out from his eyes. There's something different tonight. Something in the air. His eyes are open, he's facing outward, gripping the mike for his life, hair falling in his face, dripping sweat, we sense all his soul concentrated in what he has to say. Cliques of GROUPIES have staked claims at the foot of the stage, eyes fucking him as he writhes, spreading his legs. Every twitch, every moment he sucks out the tension on the musical interludes generates a whip of a reaction in his audience. Nobody is moving in the club. The DANCERS are still, the GO GO GIRLS in their white plastic boots and dresses hang motionless in their gilded cages. Even the WAITRESSES have stopped, frozen with their trays, denying something is going to happen. PAMELA, DOROTHY... JERRY from the Fog, also the manager of this place, watches from the balcony, shaking his head, doesn't understand. Panning to two RECORD TYPES with him -- JAC HOLZMAN, distinguished six footer, suit, and PAUL ROTHCHILD, funky, pigtailed, ex-con, early 30s. The band has come together fully now. ROBBIE'S fingers sliding across the trembling strings, staring at the ceiling, wandering around the darkened portions of stage left, he feels Jim -- echoes him back with his flamenco-blues guitar. JOHN on drums, reading Jim's moods, throws in the spontaneous and violent riffs that keep it savage. He literally tortures Jim's ears with his drums. And RAY, concentrated with his nodding head like a big flamingo over his keyboard, mixing it up, throwing curves, yet also -- and more delicately -- torturing Jim with the messianic organ sounds that shriek in his ears. There is something of Merlin in Ray -- the alchemist knowing how to play Jim. And JIM -- "that sneaky silent lithe flowing flexing animal" -- ready at last to share both his body and his soul with the world, to live out the words of the Indian prophet... to lead. Ray looks over up from his board, catches Robby with a 'what's this?' look... They go with it, improvising... Jim clutching the mike tighter, seeking solace in its arms; it all hangs in the air as if he doesn't have any idea what he's going to say next. Pamela sensing something is coming... the AUDIENCE... Jerry... the go-go dancers... FLASH -- A FATHER'S FACE, any face, older, any man... FLASH -- A MOTHER'S FACE, any face, older, a woman As the AUDIENCE gasps, shocked, stunned... As the guitar hits a high, horrid reverb, JIM in slightly SLOW MOTION suddenly tightens his backbone as if electrocuted and shoots violently backwards, hitting the floor like a puppet cut from his string -- we sense Jim himself has crossed a barrier now, gone into yet another stage of his performance, a stage from which he can never return. Like the gunfighter who has killed his first man. RAY sees it instantly where it's going, hits the organ! Robbie and John follow. the instruments EXPLODE all at once trying to bury Jim in the stage as JIM looses one of his primal SCREAMS. He slobbers, drunk, slouches, stumbles, regains his balance. The Crowd loves it, but Ray senses something wrong. Robbie starts to feel the effects of the acid Jim gave him -- his eyes registering fear. During the instrumental break, Jim picks up one of the roses from the floor, pokes it at John on the drums, who whacks it to death on his skins. Jim starts to whirl the mike cord like a slingshot or bolo, in an ever-widening arc... ...it flies off and smashes into the head of the PROMOTER at the edge of the stage arguing with SIDDONS. The man is staggered, weaving, Siddons helping him to a FIRST AID TEAM. PHOTOGRAPHERS flashing cameras. BAKER urging him on from the wings as he passes out. A GIRL runs onto the stage, dumps a bottle of champagne on Jim's head. Jim takes his shirt off, soaking wet. The CROWD is also stripping in the heat, shirts, blouses, screaming so much now they are obviously way past listening to any song. It has become a view of the future -- the NAKED GIRL and BOY dancing stark naked drugged out in the middle of it all, the FAT GIRL prowling naked on the edge of the stage before she's arrested, the FIGHTS in the Crowd, fists, blood, a black man chased and beaten, the sense of Altamont here, the hippie flower trip gone to shit -- it's all come down here tonight, the end of an era. He stops singing suddenly, squinting out into the madness. The arena echoes with the uncomprehending chant of the Mob... SPECIAL EFFECT -- the INDIAN GHOST is leaving Jim's body -- spectrally moving off him, hovering there in the air, its eyes -- the face bristling. A COYOTE lurks under the sickly light of a streetlamp, pulling its head from an overstuffed garbage can, looking back at them. She breaks into sobs, seeking his arms. He hugs her. In the notebooks, at intervals during the conversation, we see powerful sketches colored in visionary hallucinogenic William Blake mode with writing between. Books are everywhere -- panning Kerouac, Ginsberg, Nietzsche, Rimbaud, Mailer, Artaud, mythological works, shamanistic books, a library of stolen ideas. Pam shivers, a strange thought. He runs his fingers thru her hair, kissing her gently. The panties coming off. Rousseau dangling from the Venice moon. He moves a little over excited, nervous, more awkward than we might expect. RAY MANZAREK is meditating in yoga posture, longer hair as well, in his post-graduate phase, sandals, colorful hippie shirt. But the meditation is not going well. He's shaking his head at himself, frowning. Jim has approached closer, amused, looking down. Ray opening his eyes -- his POV -- Jim, slouched, jacket over his shoulder, sun behind him. Jim has crouched, digging his hand in the sand. As the grains spill out of his fist he has his eyes closed. Ray pantomimes chords in the keyboard sand. All of a sudden we're in RAY'S POV -- a mystical moment. Jim singing, no sound, then pure song, unadulterated by atmosphere. Jim stops, shrugs. Ray looks at him a long beat. Intense eyes, the manner of a man who knows what he wants and cannot be stopped. Jim laughs, loves Ray's ardor as they move along the ocean side. As they walk off, the two of them along the edge of the Pacific. A dog jumping for a frisbee. The music of MOONLIGHT DRIVE now riffs over the real song now. JIM straining to make it work, jumping around violent,

By first name, who are the Doors band members?

Jim, John, Robbie, Ray.

in his mustang -- making a shakey, screeching curve at the bend of the beach. And he's gone. An ominous ROAR of an AIRPLANE above RAY. -- flying away. The ENGINEER, exhausted, doesn't feel anything funny. The poets face brightens. A small but ever-so-sweet smile of triumph hikes up the corners of his mouth. He stands, sways, than moves out of view. The empty bottle of whiskey, its sands run out, is left behind. As we FADE OUT, a hardy, mischievous Morrison laugh and a ripple of sensuous MUSIC carry us into the lilting, lamenting strains of AN AMERICAN PRAYER -- THE END without lyrics for now as we cut to: Looks at the time. Somewhere near dawn. The sounds of a bath being drawn. Nightmare or sleep? She tries to fade back to sleep but the MUSIC and the WHISPERING prod her, pull her awake... His face. At peace, as she sobs, the MUSIC cresting to Jim's lyrics. The MUSIC rolling up on: The AUDIENCE is out there somewhere in the dark -- we sense they too have become ghosts, as all of us will one day. The MUSIC continuing up to roll from AMERICAN PRAYER -- THE END -- snatches we annotate. Camera closing past the DOORS to JIM alone, circling the mike with his dance -- the INDIAN GHOSTMAN jigging, shaman- like, off to the side -- now levitating above the stage, all crazy, gawky dancing. now humming a song from the desert. The OTHERS join in his chant, the four rising and falling like a collective breath. Suddenly Jim breaks and rises out of the circle. Ray, Robbie, John, all looking at him. The same need. Pamela, the desperation of her eyes. He goes, his boots in the sand. Pamela calling from another dune, far away. His POV -- of her, receding. She screams for him. He's in pain. Cannot help her. A BIRD of prey in the sky. Jim moving across a lunar landscape. SPECIAL EFFECT: The sun is black like night or else white in a black sky. Voices in the distance. "Jim, where are you going?" A mother's voice, a father's voice. At the overturned truck, the bodies in the road... at the older Indian looking at him... finally at the dying Indian... his eyes. JIM bounds towards the crevice. Jim, thunderstruck, gaping. A gallery of ancient INDIAN PETROGLYPHS surround him on all sides. Curious, oblong figures, buffalo, sacred deer and bear, creatures of the hunt; hunters and their weapons, rain clouds, masked deities proclaiming the answers to the Mysteries, the story of Creation. Camera weaving up to see one of the faces of the deities -- staring at him from the wall -- an eagle's face... The sound of a rattle -- "shichishichi" -- he realizes he's being watched. By what? He whips his eyes everywhere. A large LIZARD perches on a boulder assesses him calmly, tatters of a former skin clinging to its throat, spits a forked tongue and drills its black pearly eyes into his skull... Now the sound of the Bull-Roarer, whipping the air, announcing the appearance of the shaman. Jim's struck with an overwhelming sense of... awe... ancient mysteries. He turns. The lizard is looking at him. The GHOST of the DEAD INDIAN is also looking at him. We are looking at JIM from its point of view -- a blur of light, some headdress, a sense of skins... music drops back, no lyrics... the voice is old, familiar, possible Spanish descent dialect or huararchi. The voice, the pretense, -- the glow too quickly fades -- leaving Jim so alone, not sure what he has heard, yet he knows he has heard, and he knows he has seen -- and once you have seen, it will never be the same again. His eyes. Camera pulling out from his eyes. There's something different tonight. Something in the air. His eyes are open, he's facing outward, gripping the mike for his life, hair falling in his face, dripping sweat, we sense all his soul concentrated in what he has to say. Cliques of GROUPIES have staked claims at the foot of the stage, eyes fucking him as he writhes, spreading his legs. Every twitch, every moment he sucks out the tension on the musical interludes generates a whip of a reaction in his audience. Nobody is moving in the club. The DANCERS are still, the GO GO GIRLS in their white plastic boots and dresses hang motionless in their gilded cages. Even the WAITRESSES have stopped, frozen with their trays, denying something is going to happen. PAMELA, DOROTHY... JERRY from the Fog, also the manager of this place, watches from the balcony, shaking his head, doesn't understand. Panning to two RECORD TYPES with him -- JAC HOLZMAN, distinguished six footer, suit, and PAUL ROTHCHILD, funky, pigtailed, ex-con, early 30s. The band has come together fully now. ROBBIE'S fingers sliding across the trembling strings, staring at the ceiling, wandering around the darkened portions of stage left, he feels Jim -- of a dying Indian on an Arizona highway -- then gone. A moment, only three, four beats. An optical illusion? Maybe. Or is it saying, 'now you are just a white man'... maybe not. As it drifts off in a cloud, into the vast audience's EYEBALL. He waits. INTERCUTS of the FACES in the crowd. Jim pulling his shirt off -- barechested -- waving it like a toreador in front of his leather crotch. The audience seems to be paying no attention to what he is doing or saying, which drives him to deeper rage. He saunters to the edge of the stage. Hisses at them. He clasps his crotch, leering at a cute LITTLE GIRL in the front row, shaking it at her. Her BOYFRIEND, pissed at Jim, runs for the stage. Jim unzips his leathers. He feigns opening his belt and exposing himself, flipping his shirt back and forth over the crotch in a mock striptease. A flock of TEENAGE GIRLS are sure they've seen it, hysterical. RAY starts playing BREAK ON THROUGH trying to keep things normal. JIM now out there in the arena in a CONGA LINE, doing his rain dance, hands on hips, the TEENAGERS forming a long snake behind him. The huge speaker columns teeter and fall. A corner of the STAGE now COLLAPSES from the weight, PEOPLE spilling on the floor, screams. The power console tips over next to DENSMORE. He bails. Manzarek and Krieger follow. The PROMOTER is yelling at SIDDONS about his insurance contract as the COPS and FBI AGENTS close in, looking for Jim. Who is out there leading his naked drunken FLOCK, hundreds of them in a phallic Pied Piper dance thru the darkened seaplane hanger. From BREAK ON THROUGH PART TWO: Ray watching from the corner of the the stage as JIM looses one of his primal SCREAMS. He slobbers, drunk, slouches, stumbles, regains his balance. The Crowd loves it, but Ray senses something wrong. Robbie starts to feel the effects of the acid Jim gave him -- his eyes registering fear. During the instrumental break, Jim picks up one of the roses from the floor, pokes it at John on the drums, who whacks it to death on his skins. Jim starts to whirl the mike cord like a slingshot or bolo, in an ever-widening arc... ...it flies off and smashes into the head of the PROMOTER at the edge of the stage arguing with SIDDONS. The man is staggered, weaving, Siddons helping him to a FIRST AID TEAM. PHOTOGRAPHERS flashing cameras. BAKER urging him on from the wings as he passes out. A GIRL runs onto the stage, dumps a bottle of champagne on Jim's head. Jim takes his shirt off, soaking wet. The CROWD is also stripping in the heat, shirts, blouses, screaming so much now they are obviously way past listening to any song. It has become a view of the future -- the NAKED GIRL and BOY dancing stark naked drugged out in the middle of it all, the FAT GIRL prowling naked on the edge of the stage before she's arrested, the FIGHTS in the Crowd, fists, blood, a black man chased and beaten, the sense of Altamont here, the hippie flower trip gone to shit -- it's all come down here tonight, the end of an era. He stops singing suddenly, squinting out into the madness. The arena echoes with the uncomprehending chant of the Mob... SPECIAL EFFECT -- the INDIAN GHOST is leaving Jim's body -- spectrally moving off him, hovering there in the air, its eyes -- the face

How old was Jim Morrison at his death?

27

The GHOST of the DEAD INDIAN is also looking at him. We are looking at JIM from its point of view -- a blur of light, some headdress, a sense of skins... music drops back, no lyrics... the voice is old, familiar, possible Spanish descent dialect or huararchi. The voice, the pretense, -- the glow too quickly fades -- leaving Jim so alone, not sure what he has heard, yet he knows he has heard, and he knows he has seen -- and once you have seen, it will never be the same again. His eyes. Camera pulling out from his eyes. There's something different tonight. Something in the air. His eyes are open, he's facing outward, gripping the mike for his life, hair falling in his face, dripping sweat, we sense all his soul concentrated in what he has to say. Cliques of GROUPIES have staked claims at the foot of the stage, eyes fucking him as he writhes, spreading his legs. Every twitch, every moment he sucks out the tension on the musical interludes generates a whip of a reaction in his audience. Nobody is moving in the club. The DANCERS are still, the GO GO GIRLS in their white plastic boots and dresses hang motionless in their gilded cages. Even the WAITRESSES have stopped, frozen with their trays, denying something is going to happen. PAMELA, DOROTHY... JERRY from the Fog, also the manager of this place, watches from the balcony, shaking his head, doesn't understand. Panning to two RECORD TYPES with him -- JAC HOLZMAN, distinguished six footer, suit, and PAUL ROTHCHILD, funky, pigtailed, ex-con, early 30s. The band has come together fully now. ROBBIE'S fingers sliding across the trembling strings, staring at the ceiling, wandering around the darkened portions of stage left, he feels Jim -- now humming a song from the desert. The OTHERS join in his chant, the four rising and falling like a collective breath. Suddenly Jim breaks and rises out of the circle. Ray, Robbie, John, all looking at him. The same need. Pamela, the desperation of her eyes. He goes, his boots in the sand. Pamela calling from another dune, far away. His POV -- of her, receding. She screams for him. He's in pain. Cannot help her. A BIRD of prey in the sky. Jim moving across a lunar landscape. SPECIAL EFFECT: The sun is black like night or else white in a black sky. Voices in the distance. "Jim, where are you going?" A mother's voice, a father's voice. At the overturned truck, the bodies in the road... at the older Indian looking at him... finally at the dying Indian... his eyes. JIM bounds towards the crevice. Jim, thunderstruck, gaping. A gallery of ancient INDIAN PETROGLYPHS surround him on all sides. Curious, oblong figures, buffalo, sacred deer and bear, creatures of the hunt; hunters and their weapons, rain clouds, masked deities proclaiming the answers to the Mysteries, the story of Creation. Camera weaving up to see one of the faces of the deities -- staring at him from the wall -- an eagle's face... The sound of a rattle -- "shichishichi" -- he realizes he's being watched. By what? He whips his eyes everywhere. A large LIZARD perches on a boulder assesses him calmly, tatters of a former skin clinging to its throat, spits a forked tongue and drills its black pearly eyes into his skull... Now the sound of the Bull-Roarer, whipping the air, announcing the appearance of the shaman. Jim's struck with an overwhelming sense of... awe... ancient mysteries. He turns. The lizard is looking at him. of a dying Indian on an Arizona highway -- then gone. A moment, only three, four beats. An optical illusion? Maybe. Or is it saying, 'now you are just a white man'... maybe not. As it drifts off in a cloud, into the vast audience's EYEBALL. He waits. INTERCUTS of the FACES in the crowd. Jim pulling his shirt off -- barechested -- waving it like a toreador in front of his leather crotch. The audience seems to be paying no attention to what he is doing or saying, which drives him to deeper rage. He saunters to the edge of the stage. Hisses at them. He clasps his crotch, leering at a cute LITTLE GIRL in the front row, shaking it at her. Her BOYFRIEND, pissed at Jim, runs for the stage. Jim unzips his leathers. He feigns opening his belt and exposing himself, flipping his shirt back and forth over the crotch in a mock striptease. A flock of TEENAGE GIRLS are sure they've seen it, hysterical. RAY starts playing BREAK ON THROUGH trying to keep things normal. JIM now out there in the arena in a CONGA LINE, doing his rain dance, hands on hips, the TEENAGERS forming a long snake behind him. The huge speaker columns teeter and fall. A corner of the STAGE now COLLAPSES from the weight, PEOPLE spilling on the floor, screams. The power console tips over next to DENSMORE. He bails. Manzarek and Krieger follow. The PROMOTER is yelling at SIDDONS about his insurance contract as the COPS and FBI AGENTS close in, looking for Jim. Who is out there leading his naked drunken FLOCK, hundreds of them in a phallic Pied Piper dance thru the darkened seaplane hanger. From BREAK ON THROUGH PART TWO: Ray watching from the corner of the echoes him back with his flamenco-blues guitar. JOHN on drums, reading Jim's moods, throws in the spontaneous and violent riffs that keep it savage. He literally tortures Jim's ears with his drums. And RAY, concentrated with his nodding head like a big flamingo over his keyboard, mixing it up, throwing curves, yet also -- and more delicately -- torturing Jim with the messianic organ sounds that shriek in his ears. There is something of Merlin in Ray -- the alchemist knowing how to play Jim. And JIM -- "that sneaky silent lithe flowing flexing animal" -- ready at last to share both his body and his soul with the world, to live out the words of the Indian prophet... to lead. Ray looks over up from his board, catches Robby with a 'what's this?' look... They go with it, improvising... Jim clutching the mike tighter, seeking solace in its arms; it all hangs in the air as if he doesn't have any idea what he's going to say next. Pamela sensing something is coming... the AUDIENCE... Jerry... the go-go dancers... FLASH -- A FATHER'S FACE, any face, older, any man... FLASH -- A MOTHER'S FACE, any face, older, a woman As the AUDIENCE gasps, shocked, stunned... As the guitar hits a high, horrid reverb, JIM in slightly SLOW MOTION suddenly tightens his backbone as if electrocuted and shoots violently backwards, hitting the floor like a puppet cut from his string -- we sense Jim himself has crossed a barrier now, gone into yet another stage of his performance, a stage from which he can never return. Like the gunfighter who has killed his first man. RAY sees it instantly where it's going, hits the organ! Robbie and John follow. the instruments EXPLODE all at once trying to bury Jim in the stage as JIM looses one of his primal SCREAMS. He slobbers, drunk, slouches, stumbles, regains his balance. The Crowd loves it, but Ray senses something wrong. Robbie starts to feel the effects of the acid Jim gave him -- his eyes registering fear. During the instrumental break, Jim picks up one of the roses from the floor, pokes it at John on the drums, who whacks it to death on his skins. Jim starts to whirl the mike cord like a slingshot or bolo, in an ever-widening arc... ...it flies off and smashes into the head of the PROMOTER at the edge of the stage arguing with SIDDONS. The man is staggered, weaving, Siddons helping him to a FIRST AID TEAM. PHOTOGRAPHERS flashing cameras. BAKER urging him on from the wings as he passes out. A GIRL runs onto the stage, dumps a bottle of champagne on Jim's head. Jim takes his shirt off, soaking wet. The CROWD is also stripping in the heat, shirts, blouses, screaming so much now they are obviously way past listening to any song. It has become a view of the future -- the NAKED GIRL and BOY dancing stark naked drugged out in the middle of it all, the FAT GIRL prowling naked on the edge of the stage before she's arrested, the FIGHTS in the Crowd, fists, blood, a black man chased and beaten, the sense of Altamont here, the hippie flower trip gone to shit -- it's all come down here tonight, the end of an era. He stops singing suddenly, squinting out into the madness. The arena echoes with the uncomprehending chant of the Mob... SPECIAL EFFECT -- the INDIAN GHOST is leaving Jim's body -- spectrally moving off him, hovering there in the air, its eyes -- the face

What was Jim's cause of death?

Heart failure

in his mustang -- making a shakey, screeching curve at the bend of the beach. And he's gone. An ominous ROAR of an AIRPLANE above RAY. -- flying away. The ENGINEER, exhausted, doesn't feel anything funny. The poets face brightens. A small but ever-so-sweet smile of triumph hikes up the corners of his mouth. He stands, sways, than moves out of view. The empty bottle of whiskey, its sands run out, is left behind. As we FADE OUT, a hardy, mischievous Morrison laugh and a ripple of sensuous MUSIC carry us into the lilting, lamenting strains of AN AMERICAN PRAYER -- THE END without lyrics for now as we cut to: Looks at the time. Somewhere near dawn. The sounds of a bath being drawn. Nightmare or sleep? She tries to fade back to sleep but the MUSIC and the WHISPERING prod her, pull her awake... His face. At peace, as she sobs, the MUSIC cresting to Jim's lyrics. The MUSIC rolling up on: The AUDIENCE is out there somewhere in the dark -- we sense they too have become ghosts, as all of us will one day. The MUSIC continuing up to roll from AMERICAN PRAYER -- THE END -- snatches we annotate. Camera closing past the DOORS to JIM alone, circling the mike with his dance -- the INDIAN GHOSTMAN jigging, shaman- like, off to the side -- now levitating above the stage, all crazy, gawky dancing. bristling. A COYOTE lurks under the sickly light of a streetlamp, pulling its head from an overstuffed garbage can, looking back at them. She breaks into sobs, seeking his arms. He hugs her. In the notebooks, at intervals during the conversation, we see powerful sketches colored in visionary hallucinogenic William Blake mode with writing between. Books are everywhere -- panning Kerouac, Ginsberg, Nietzsche, Rimbaud, Mailer, Artaud, mythological works, shamanistic books, a library of stolen ideas. Pam shivers, a strange thought. He runs his fingers thru her hair, kissing her gently. The panties coming off. Rousseau dangling from the Venice moon. He moves a little over excited, nervous, more awkward than we might expect. RAY MANZAREK is meditating in yoga posture, longer hair as well, in his post-graduate phase, sandals, colorful hippie shirt. But the meditation is not going well. He's shaking his head at himself, frowning. Jim has approached closer, amused, looking down. Ray opening his eyes -- his POV -- Jim, slouched, jacket over his shoulder, sun behind him. Jim has crouched, digging his hand in the sand. As the grains spill out of his fist he has his eyes closed. Ray pantomimes chords in the keyboard sand. All of a sudden we're in RAY'S POV -- a mystical moment. Jim singing, no sound, then pure song, unadulterated by atmosphere. Jim stops, shrugs. Ray looks at him a long beat. Intense eyes, the manner of a man who knows what he wants and cannot be stopped. Jim laughs, loves Ray's ardor as they move along the ocean side. As they walk off, the two of them along the edge of the Pacific. A dog jumping for a frisbee. The music of MOONLIGHT DRIVE now riffs over the real song now. JIM straining to make it work, jumping around violent, The GHOST of the DEAD INDIAN is also looking at him. We are looking at JIM from its point of view -- a blur of light, some headdress, a sense of skins... music drops back, no lyrics... the voice is old, familiar, possible Spanish descent dialect or huararchi. The voice, the pretense, -- the glow too quickly fades -- leaving Jim so alone, not sure what he has heard, yet he knows he has heard, and he knows he has seen -- and once you have seen, it will never be the same again. His eyes. Camera pulling out from his eyes. There's something different tonight. Something in the air. His eyes are open, he's facing outward, gripping the mike for his life, hair falling in his face, dripping sweat, we sense all his soul concentrated in what he has to say. Cliques of GROUPIES have staked claims at the foot of the stage, eyes fucking him as he writhes, spreading his legs. Every twitch, every moment he sucks out the tension on the musical interludes generates a whip of a reaction in his audience. Nobody is moving in the club. The DANCERS are still, the GO GO GIRLS in their white plastic boots and dresses hang motionless in their gilded cages. Even the WAITRESSES have stopped, frozen with their trays, denying something is going to happen. PAMELA, DOROTHY... JERRY from the Fog, also the manager of this place, watches from the balcony, shaking his head, doesn't understand. Panning to two RECORD TYPES with him -- JAC HOLZMAN, distinguished six footer, suit, and PAUL ROTHCHILD, funky, pigtailed, ex-con, early 30s. The band has come together fully now. ROBBIE'S fingers sliding across the trembling strings, staring at the ceiling, wandering around the darkened portions of stage left, he feels Jim -- his primal unmistakeable scream. The CLUB in shock. Tribal taboo broken in one instant. Jerry exploding off the balcony toward the stage... Pamela, extremely moved and impressed, and Dorothy... the go- go girls, as jaded as they come, are stunned tension... the groupies love it. Jim has jumped up now, dancing an Indian war dance around the mike. Jerry pinning Jim to the wall, Lost in the melee, RAY and JOHN springing Jim back from likely death JAC HOLZMAN pushing past to Ray. Pamela separating Jim visually from Jerry. Holzman pauses, a dramatic presence, six foot two, impeccably dressed, he knows the weight of his words. It hangs there. Impossible words. John and Robbie sharing looks. Strains of LIGHT MY FIRE cross the cut. Camera moving fast thru the control room, past the ENGINEER (BRUCE BOTNICK), taciturn, 20's, the PRODUCER (PAUL ROTHCHILD) in pig heaven, and the owner JAC HOLZMAN in his blue suit watching. Camera moving fast past a smiling PAM watching, out to the DOORS on the floor, jamming... on to JIM in the vocal booth, headphone to his ears. The song, now fully -- orchestrated, rolling on over the following MONTAGE: A staged 16mm. grainy shot of JIM and PAMELA, RAY and DOROTHY, JOHN, ROBBIE and their TWO NEW GIRLFRIENDS wandering thru the CROWD sharing the spirit. Pam and Jim fool around -- laughing -- tickling each other for the home movie camera shot by Ray... Pam is goofy, makes funny faces, teases him running a flower under his nose, thru his hair, then trips him. He chases her across the lawn. JIM swandives into the stoned crowd with the mike at the instrumental section, a colored spotlight flecking him, GIRLS kiss him. The guys want to be him, the girls want him -- and he knows each other. If Hieronymus Bosch had painted a rock concert, this would be it. Meanwhile, JOHN arguing with RAY and JIM who sways, drunk. The FBI agents get lost in the background. As JIM brings up a tiny vial with a lubricating head on it, holds it to Robbie's lips playfully. They're in the shadows. Something so sincere in Jim's eyes. Robbie takes the fatal lick. Jim smiles manically as the NUREMBERG SOUNDS of the CROWD drown them out. JIM spreading his arms like Icarus set to fly. The ROARS redouble, their FEET stomping out: COPS everywhere looking as... He lights it. The CROWD going nuts as the DOORS go into the ominous introductory strains of FIVE TO ONE trying to get the onus off Jim and the show on the road. The Audience knows the song, go into a primal FOOT STOMP with it. Bras are thrown on stage. Kids writhe madly in the primal Doors dance. People with SPARKLERS running through the hangar. CAMERA FLASHBULBS popping throughout the show... get Jim on film while you can. Jim, drunk, high, smoking the jay, won't go into the lyrics right off, forcing the Doors to circle the beat again. He jerks his hand back from the mike as if it were a hot wire. The Crowd yelling something. An INSANE TEENAGER stands on the railing of a balcony above the auditorium, poised to swan dive some 18 feet into the crowd. Which he now does, arms held out like wings. The Crowd yells, parting to allow his bulk to smack the floor. Pause. Cops rushing to the spot. The KID suddenly stands up, unhurt, with a stoned out look on his face. Then splits at a full run thru the crowd chased by the perplexed Cops. Everybody surging back towards

What gift does Jim give his band mates at his last visit with them at Ray's party?

Jim gave them each a copy of An American Prayer.

on as the last absurdist images flicker off. Hissing and a big Bronx cheer summarize the feelings of the 100 odd STUDENTS crammed into a bunker-like theater. A youngish INSTRUCTOR stirs to the front row from a row of upset FACULTY. Hands shooting up to criticize. TRICK, BONES and JACK, three friends sitting next to Jim, shoot their hands up. A cacophony of voices, critics, emotions blend out over Jim's quiet eyes. He slows, a dramatic young lion pose, surveying the girls. The cronies wait, anticipating something inescapably evil to escape his lips. Camera moving to reveal JOHN DENSMORE wiry, solid on the drums... moving on to ROBBIE KRIEGER, wispy, ethereal looking, the youngest, flamenco-type moves on his early electric guitar. Also a HARMONICA PLAYER and a BASE. They all seem slightly embarrassed by either the cheap sound system feedback or Ray's warbling, but the crowd couldn't care less -- a German beerhall, they want noise and sex. JIM and his GANG, beers in hand, mouth back the words, beers everywhere shoved to the smokey ceiling, everyone on their feet, nuts with spring fever. Jim eyeing the GIRL next to him. The FOOTBALL TEAM TYPES edge over nearby, one of them picking out Jim with a glare. She looks puzzled by the suggestion. He evades the football man's grasp, elusive physicality. He hops over tables, heading for the stage. Other KIDS are up on the stage dancing, but Jim goes right up alongside RAY, shaking his hips like Elvis. Ray giving him the mike. Improv time. They love it. The place going wild. The girl with the football player wanting him. Jim slides her upstairs' door open, crawls in next to her bed. She's asleep with her boyfriend. He touches her toe. She awakes, startled. There's a crash. They turn bristling. A COYOTE lurks under the sickly light of a streetlamp, pulling its head from an overstuffed garbage can, looking back at them. She breaks into sobs, seeking his arms. He hugs her. In the notebooks, at intervals during the conversation, we see powerful sketches colored in visionary hallucinogenic William Blake mode with writing between. Books are everywhere -- panning Kerouac, Ginsberg, Nietzsche, Rimbaud, Mailer, Artaud, mythological works, shamanistic books, a library of stolen ideas. Pam shivers, a strange thought. He runs his fingers thru her hair, kissing her gently. The panties coming off. Rousseau dangling from the Venice moon. He moves a little over excited, nervous, more awkward than we might expect. RAY MANZAREK is meditating in yoga posture, longer hair as well, in his post-graduate phase, sandals, colorful hippie shirt. But the meditation is not going well. He's shaking his head at himself, frowning. Jim has approached closer, amused, looking down. Ray opening his eyes -- his POV -- Jim, slouched, jacket over his shoulder, sun behind him. Jim has crouched, digging his hand in the sand. As the grains spill out of his fist he has his eyes closed. Ray pantomimes chords in the keyboard sand. All of a sudden we're in RAY'S POV -- a mystical moment. Jim singing, no sound, then pure song, unadulterated by atmosphere. Jim stops, shrugs. Ray looks at him a long beat. Intense eyes, the manner of a man who knows what he wants and cannot be stopped. Jim laughs, loves Ray's ardor as they move along the ocean side. As they walk off, the two of them along the edge of the Pacific. A dog jumping for a frisbee. The music of MOONLIGHT DRIVE now riffs over the real song now. JIM straining to make it work, jumping around violent, his primal unmistakeable scream. The CLUB in shock. Tribal taboo broken in one instant. Jerry exploding off the balcony toward the stage... Pamela, extremely moved and impressed, and Dorothy... the go- go girls, as jaded as they come, are stunned tension... the groupies love it. Jim has jumped up now, dancing an Indian war dance around the mike. Jerry pinning Jim to the wall, Lost in the melee, RAY and JOHN springing Jim back from likely death JAC HOLZMAN pushing past to Ray. Pamela separating Jim visually from Jerry. Holzman pauses, a dramatic presence, six foot two, impeccably dressed, he knows the weight of his words. It hangs there. Impossible words. John and Robbie sharing looks. Strains of LIGHT MY FIRE cross the cut. Camera moving fast thru the control room, past the ENGINEER (BRUCE BOTNICK), taciturn, 20's, the PRODUCER (PAUL ROTHCHILD) in pig heaven, and the owner JAC HOLZMAN in his blue suit watching. Camera moving fast past a smiling PAM watching, out to the DOORS on the floor, jamming... on to JIM in the vocal booth, headphone to his ears. The song, now fully -- orchestrated, rolling on over the following MONTAGE: A staged 16mm. grainy shot of JIM and PAMELA, RAY and DOROTHY, JOHN, ROBBIE and their TWO NEW GIRLFRIENDS wandering thru the CROWD sharing the spirit. Pam and Jim fool around -- laughing -- tickling each other for the home movie camera shot by Ray... Pam is goofy, makes funny faces, teases him running a flower under his nose, thru his hair, then trips him. He chases her across the lawn. JIM swandives into the stoned crowd with the mike at the instrumental section, a colored spotlight flecking him, GIRLS kiss him. The guys want to be him, the girls want him -- and he knows The GHOST of the DEAD INDIAN is also looking at him. We are looking at JIM from its point of view -- a blur of light, some headdress, a sense of skins... music drops back, no lyrics... the voice is old, familiar, possible Spanish descent dialect or huararchi. The voice, the pretense, -- the glow too quickly fades -- leaving Jim so alone, not sure what he has heard, yet he knows he has heard, and he knows he has seen -- and once you have seen, it will never be the same again. His eyes. Camera pulling out from his eyes. There's something different tonight. Something in the air. His eyes are open, he's facing outward, gripping the mike for his life, hair falling in his face, dripping sweat, we sense all his soul concentrated in what he has to say. Cliques of GROUPIES have staked claims at the foot of the stage, eyes fucking him as he writhes, spreading his legs. Every twitch, every moment he sucks out the tension on the musical interludes generates a whip of a reaction in his audience. Nobody is moving in the club. The DANCERS are still, the GO GO GIRLS in their white plastic boots and dresses hang motionless in their gilded cages. Even the WAITRESSES have stopped, frozen with their trays, denying something is going to happen. PAMELA, DOROTHY... JERRY from the Fog, also the manager of this place, watches from the balcony, shaking his head, doesn't understand. Panning to two RECORD TYPES with him -- JAC HOLZMAN, distinguished six footer, suit, and PAUL ROTHCHILD, funky, pigtailed, ex-con, early 30s. The band has come together fully now. ROBBIE'S fingers sliding across the trembling strings, staring at the ceiling, wandering around the darkened portions of stage left, he feels Jim -- echoes him back with his flamenco-blues guitar. JOHN on drums, reading Jim's moods, throws in the spontaneous and violent riffs that keep it savage. He literally tortures Jim's ears with his drums. And RAY, concentrated with his nodding head like a big flamingo over his keyboard, mixing it up, throwing curves, yet also -- and more delicately -- torturing Jim with the messianic organ sounds that shriek in his ears. There is something of Merlin in Ray -- the alchemist knowing how to play Jim. And JIM -- "that sneaky silent lithe flowing flexing animal" -- ready at last to share both his body and his soul with the world, to live out the words of the Indian prophet... to lead. Ray looks over up from his board, catches Robby with a 'what's this?' look... They go with it, improvising... Jim clutching the mike tighter, seeking solace in its arms; it all hangs in the air as if he doesn't have any idea what he's going to say next. Pamela sensing something is coming... the AUDIENCE... Jerry... the go-go dancers... FLASH -- A FATHER'S FACE, any face, older, any man... FLASH -- A MOTHER'S FACE, any face, older, a woman As the AUDIENCE gasps, shocked, stunned... As the guitar hits a high, horrid reverb, JIM in slightly SLOW MOTION suddenly tightens his backbone as if electrocuted and shoots violently backwards, hitting the floor like a puppet cut from his string -- we sense Jim himself has crossed a barrier now, gone into yet another stage of his performance, a stage from which he can never return. Like the gunfighter who has killed his first man. RAY sees it instantly where it's going, hits the organ! Robbie and John follow. the instruments EXPLODE all at once trying to bury Jim in

What is Jim's reaction to Patricia's news she is pregnant?

Jim wants Patricia to have an abortion.

in his mustang -- making a shakey, screeching curve at the bend of the beach. And he's gone. An ominous ROAR of an AIRPLANE above RAY. -- flying away. The ENGINEER, exhausted, doesn't feel anything funny. The poets face brightens. A small but ever-so-sweet smile of triumph hikes up the corners of his mouth. He stands, sways, than moves out of view. The empty bottle of whiskey, its sands run out, is left behind. As we FADE OUT, a hardy, mischievous Morrison laugh and a ripple of sensuous MUSIC carry us into the lilting, lamenting strains of AN AMERICAN PRAYER -- THE END without lyrics for now as we cut to: Looks at the time. Somewhere near dawn. The sounds of a bath being drawn. Nightmare or sleep? She tries to fade back to sleep but the MUSIC and the WHISPERING prod her, pull her awake... His face. At peace, as she sobs, the MUSIC cresting to Jim's lyrics. The MUSIC rolling up on: The AUDIENCE is out there somewhere in the dark -- we sense they too have become ghosts, as all of us will one day. The MUSIC continuing up to roll from AMERICAN PRAYER -- THE END -- snatches we annotate. Camera closing past the DOORS to JIM alone, circling the mike with his dance -- the INDIAN GHOSTMAN jigging, shaman- like, off to the side -- now levitating above the stage, all crazy, gawky dancing. The GHOST of the DEAD INDIAN is also looking at him. We are looking at JIM from its point of view -- a blur of light, some headdress, a sense of skins... music drops back, no lyrics... the voice is old, familiar, possible Spanish descent dialect or huararchi. The voice, the pretense, -- the glow too quickly fades -- leaving Jim so alone, not sure what he has heard, yet he knows he has heard, and he knows he has seen -- and once you have seen, it will never be the same again. His eyes. Camera pulling out from his eyes. There's something different tonight. Something in the air. His eyes are open, he's facing outward, gripping the mike for his life, hair falling in his face, dripping sweat, we sense all his soul concentrated in what he has to say. Cliques of GROUPIES have staked claims at the foot of the stage, eyes fucking him as he writhes, spreading his legs. Every twitch, every moment he sucks out the tension on the musical interludes generates a whip of a reaction in his audience. Nobody is moving in the club. The DANCERS are still, the GO GO GIRLS in their white plastic boots and dresses hang motionless in their gilded cages. Even the WAITRESSES have stopped, frozen with their trays, denying something is going to happen. PAMELA, DOROTHY... JERRY from the Fog, also the manager of this place, watches from the balcony, shaking his head, doesn't understand. Panning to two RECORD TYPES with him -- JAC HOLZMAN, distinguished six footer, suit, and PAUL ROTHCHILD, funky, pigtailed, ex-con, early 30s. The band has come together fully now. ROBBIE'S fingers sliding across the trembling strings, staring at the ceiling, wandering around the darkened portions of stage left, he feels Jim -- bristling. A COYOTE lurks under the sickly light of a streetlamp, pulling its head from an overstuffed garbage can, looking back at them. She breaks into sobs, seeking his arms. He hugs her. In the notebooks, at intervals during the conversation, we see powerful sketches colored in visionary hallucinogenic William Blake mode with writing between. Books are everywhere -- panning Kerouac, Ginsberg, Nietzsche, Rimbaud, Mailer, Artaud, mythological works, shamanistic books, a library of stolen ideas. Pam shivers, a strange thought. He runs his fingers thru her hair, kissing her gently. The panties coming off. Rousseau dangling from the Venice moon. He moves a little over excited, nervous, more awkward than we might expect. RAY MANZAREK is meditating in yoga posture, longer hair as well, in his post-graduate phase, sandals, colorful hippie shirt. But the meditation is not going well. He's shaking his head at himself, frowning. Jim has approached closer, amused, looking down. Ray opening his eyes -- his POV -- Jim, slouched, jacket over his shoulder, sun behind him. Jim has crouched, digging his hand in the sand. As the grains spill out of his fist he has his eyes closed. Ray pantomimes chords in the keyboard sand. All of a sudden we're in RAY'S POV -- a mystical moment. Jim singing, no sound, then pure song, unadulterated by atmosphere. Jim stops, shrugs. Ray looks at him a long beat. Intense eyes, the manner of a man who knows what he wants and cannot be stopped. Jim laughs, loves Ray's ardor as they move along the ocean side. As they walk off, the two of them along the edge of the Pacific. A dog jumping for a frisbee. The music of MOONLIGHT DRIVE now riffs over the real song now. JIM straining to make it work, jumping around violent, on as the last absurdist images flicker off. Hissing and a big Bronx cheer summarize the feelings of the 100 odd STUDENTS crammed into a bunker-like theater. A youngish INSTRUCTOR stirs to the front row from a row of upset FACULTY. Hands shooting up to criticize. TRICK, BONES and JACK, three friends sitting next to Jim, shoot their hands up. A cacophony of voices, critics, emotions blend out over Jim's quiet eyes. He slows, a dramatic young lion pose, surveying the girls. The cronies wait, anticipating something inescapably evil to escape his lips. Camera moving to reveal JOHN DENSMORE wiry, solid on the drums... moving on to ROBBIE KRIEGER, wispy, ethereal looking, the youngest, flamenco-type moves on his early electric guitar. Also a HARMONICA PLAYER and a BASE. They all seem slightly embarrassed by either the cheap sound system feedback or Ray's warbling, but the crowd couldn't care less -- a German beerhall, they want noise and sex. JIM and his GANG, beers in hand, mouth back the words, beers everywhere shoved to the smokey ceiling, everyone on their feet, nuts with spring fever. Jim eyeing the GIRL next to him. The FOOTBALL TEAM TYPES edge over nearby, one of them picking out Jim with a glare. She looks puzzled by the suggestion. He evades the football man's grasp, elusive physicality. He hops over tables, heading for the stage. Other KIDS are up on the stage dancing, but Jim goes right up alongside RAY, shaking his hips like Elvis. Ray giving him the mike. Improv time. They love it. The place going wild. The girl with the football player wanting him. Jim slides her upstairs' door open, crawls in next to her bed. She's asleep with her boyfriend. He touches her toe. She awakes, startled. There's a crash. They turn now humming a song from the desert. The OTHERS join in his chant, the four rising and falling like a collective breath. Suddenly Jim breaks and rises out of the circle. Ray, Robbie, John, all looking at him. The same need. Pamela, the desperation of her eyes. He goes, his boots in the sand. Pamela calling from another dune, far away. His POV -- of her, receding. She screams for him. He's in pain. Cannot help her. A BIRD of prey in the sky. Jim moving across a lunar landscape. SPECIAL EFFECT: The sun is black like night or else white in a black sky. Voices in the distance. "Jim, where are you going?" A mother's voice, a father's voice. At the overturned truck, the bodies in the road... at the older Indian looking at him... finally at the dying Indian... his eyes. JIM bounds towards the crevice. Jim, thunderstruck, gaping. A gallery of ancient INDIAN PETROGLYPHS surround him on all sides. Curious, oblong figures, buffalo, sacred deer and bear, creatures of the hunt; hunters and their weapons, rain clouds, masked deities proclaiming the answers to the Mysteries, the story of Creation. Camera weaving up to see one of the faces of the deities -- staring at him from the wall -- an eagle's face... The sound of a rattle -- "shichishichi" -- he realizes he's being watched. By what? He whips his eyes everywhere. A large LIZARD perches on a boulder assesses him calmly, tatters of a former skin clinging to its throat, spits a forked tongue and drills its black pearly eyes into his skull... Now the sound of the Bull-Roarer, whipping the air, announcing the appearance of the shaman. Jim's struck with an overwhelming sense of... awe... ancient mysteries. He turns. The lizard is looking at him.

What school does Jim attend in California?

UCLA

bristling. A COYOTE lurks under the sickly light of a streetlamp, pulling its head from an overstuffed garbage can, looking back at them. She breaks into sobs, seeking his arms. He hugs her. In the notebooks, at intervals during the conversation, we see powerful sketches colored in visionary hallucinogenic William Blake mode with writing between. Books are everywhere -- panning Kerouac, Ginsberg, Nietzsche, Rimbaud, Mailer, Artaud, mythological works, shamanistic books, a library of stolen ideas. Pam shivers, a strange thought. He runs his fingers thru her hair, kissing her gently. The panties coming off. Rousseau dangling from the Venice moon. He moves a little over excited, nervous, more awkward than we might expect. RAY MANZAREK is meditating in yoga posture, longer hair as well, in his post-graduate phase, sandals, colorful hippie shirt. But the meditation is not going well. He's shaking his head at himself, frowning. Jim has approached closer, amused, looking down. Ray opening his eyes -- his POV -- Jim, slouched, jacket over his shoulder, sun behind him. Jim has crouched, digging his hand in the sand. As the grains spill out of his fist he has his eyes closed. Ray pantomimes chords in the keyboard sand. All of a sudden we're in RAY'S POV -- a mystical moment. Jim singing, no sound, then pure song, unadulterated by atmosphere. Jim stops, shrugs. Ray looks at him a long beat. Intense eyes, the manner of a man who knows what he wants and cannot be stopped. Jim laughs, loves Ray's ardor as they move along the ocean side. As they walk off, the two of them along the edge of the Pacific. A dog jumping for a frisbee. The music of MOONLIGHT DRIVE now riffs over the real song now. JIM straining to make it work, jumping around violent, his primal unmistakeable scream. The CLUB in shock. Tribal taboo broken in one instant. Jerry exploding off the balcony toward the stage... Pamela, extremely moved and impressed, and Dorothy... the go- go girls, as jaded as they come, are stunned tension... the groupies love it. Jim has jumped up now, dancing an Indian war dance around the mike. Jerry pinning Jim to the wall, Lost in the melee, RAY and JOHN springing Jim back from likely death JAC HOLZMAN pushing past to Ray. Pamela separating Jim visually from Jerry. Holzman pauses, a dramatic presence, six foot two, impeccably dressed, he knows the weight of his words. It hangs there. Impossible words. John and Robbie sharing looks. Strains of LIGHT MY FIRE cross the cut. Camera moving fast thru the control room, past the ENGINEER (BRUCE BOTNICK), taciturn, 20's, the PRODUCER (PAUL ROTHCHILD) in pig heaven, and the owner JAC HOLZMAN in his blue suit watching. Camera moving fast past a smiling PAM watching, out to the DOORS on the floor, jamming... on to JIM in the vocal booth, headphone to his ears. The song, now fully -- orchestrated, rolling on over the following MONTAGE: A staged 16mm. grainy shot of JIM and PAMELA, RAY and DOROTHY, JOHN, ROBBIE and their TWO NEW GIRLFRIENDS wandering thru the CROWD sharing the spirit. Pam and Jim fool around -- laughing -- tickling each other for the home movie camera shot by Ray... Pam is goofy, makes funny faces, teases him running a flower under his nose, thru his hair, then trips him. He chases her across the lawn. JIM swandives into the stoned crowd with the mike at the instrumental section, a colored spotlight flecking him, GIRLS kiss him. The guys want to be him, the girls want him -- and he knows The GHOST of the DEAD INDIAN is also looking at him. We are looking at JIM from its point of view -- a blur of light, some headdress, a sense of skins... music drops back, no lyrics... the voice is old, familiar, possible Spanish descent dialect or huararchi. The voice, the pretense, -- the glow too quickly fades -- leaving Jim so alone, not sure what he has heard, yet he knows he has heard, and he knows he has seen -- and once you have seen, it will never be the same again. His eyes. Camera pulling out from his eyes. There's something different tonight. Something in the air. His eyes are open, he's facing outward, gripping the mike for his life, hair falling in his face, dripping sweat, we sense all his soul concentrated in what he has to say. Cliques of GROUPIES have staked claims at the foot of the stage, eyes fucking him as he writhes, spreading his legs. Every twitch, every moment he sucks out the tension on the musical interludes generates a whip of a reaction in his audience. Nobody is moving in the club. The DANCERS are still, the GO GO GIRLS in their white plastic boots and dresses hang motionless in their gilded cages. Even the WAITRESSES have stopped, frozen with their trays, denying something is going to happen. PAMELA, DOROTHY... JERRY from the Fog, also the manager of this place, watches from the balcony, shaking his head, doesn't understand. Panning to two RECORD TYPES with him -- JAC HOLZMAN, distinguished six footer, suit, and PAUL ROTHCHILD, funky, pigtailed, ex-con, early 30s. The band has come together fully now. ROBBIE'S fingers sliding across the trembling strings, staring at the ceiling, wandering around the darkened portions of stage left, he feels Jim -- -- REVERSE IRIS on Jim -- feeling it now. The peyote. JIM's POV -- Pam irising out. This strange sound in his ears -- a rattle of an Indian gourd, similar to what we heard in the car in Arizona when Jim was a boy. Now a distant Indian drum beating. The beginning strains of THE END dribble in. They're all LAUGHING (strange noise) -- in a circle somewhere on the edge of a precipice in deep arroyos and magnificent rocks and cacti... A football huddle of faces - RAY, JOHN, ROBBIE, JIM -- the four DOORS... laughing with the first mad impulse of the peyote. PAM is vomiting her brains out as DOROTHY tries to comfort her on the edge of a cliff... Jim panthers up the dune. They hug. She throws up again. Jim holds his head. Feels the ride. JUMP CUTS: Jim and Pam are touching each other. Face. Shadows. Sand falls from Pam's hand. Jim turns to hawk at a bird. "Hawk! Hawk!" Then Pam is dancing alone on the dune. Abruptly Jim is back in the circle with the Doors in a sense torn between them and Pam. EXTREME CLOSEUPS of their faces, their eyes, the tensions of the trip tearing apart their teeth as they go from the laughing to the dangerous part. John shutters -- as does Robbie and Ray. Jim seems possessed. Pause. He has instilled a flux of fear in the group. Jim looking at her, smiles. Ray has his head buried in his hands. He takes Ray and Robbie's hands, his voice calming them, reform the circle. John hesitant. Not all will enter the gates at evening. Pulling John into the circle, bonding, their four heads sunk to the desert floor, Jim making wild Indian sounds, deep- throated "shoooh... shoooh"... echoes him back with his flamenco-blues guitar. JOHN on drums, reading Jim's moods, throws in the spontaneous and violent riffs that keep it savage. He literally tortures Jim's ears with his drums. And RAY, concentrated with his nodding head like a big flamingo over his keyboard, mixing it up, throwing curves, yet also -- and more delicately -- torturing Jim with the messianic organ sounds that shriek in his ears. There is something of Merlin in Ray -- the alchemist knowing how to play Jim. And JIM -- "that sneaky silent lithe flowing flexing animal" -- ready at last to share both his body and his soul with the world, to live out the words of the Indian prophet... to lead. Ray looks over up from his board, catches Robby with a 'what's this?' look... They go with it, improvising... Jim clutching the mike tighter, seeking solace in its arms; it all hangs in the air as if he doesn't have any idea what he's going to say next. Pamela sensing something is coming... the AUDIENCE... Jerry... the go-go dancers... FLASH -- A FATHER'S FACE, any face, older, any man... FLASH -- A MOTHER'S FACE, any face, older, a woman As the AUDIENCE gasps, shocked, stunned... As the guitar hits a high, horrid reverb, JIM in slightly SLOW MOTION suddenly tightens his backbone as if electrocuted and shoots violently backwards, hitting the floor like a puppet cut from his string -- we sense Jim himself has crossed a barrier now, gone into yet another stage of his performance, a stage from which he can never return. Like the gunfighter who has killed his first man. RAY sees it instantly where it's going, hits the organ! Robbie and John follow. the instruments EXPLODE all at once trying to bury Jim in

Who is Pamela Courson to Jim?

Girlfriend

in his mustang -- making a shakey, screeching curve at the bend of the beach. And he's gone. An ominous ROAR of an AIRPLANE above RAY. -- flying away. The ENGINEER, exhausted, doesn't feel anything funny. The poets face brightens. A small but ever-so-sweet smile of triumph hikes up the corners of his mouth. He stands, sways, than moves out of view. The empty bottle of whiskey, its sands run out, is left behind. As we FADE OUT, a hardy, mischievous Morrison laugh and a ripple of sensuous MUSIC carry us into the lilting, lamenting strains of AN AMERICAN PRAYER -- THE END without lyrics for now as we cut to: Looks at the time. Somewhere near dawn. The sounds of a bath being drawn. Nightmare or sleep? She tries to fade back to sleep but the MUSIC and the WHISPERING prod her, pull her awake... His face. At peace, as she sobs, the MUSIC cresting to Jim's lyrics. The MUSIC rolling up on: The AUDIENCE is out there somewhere in the dark -- we sense they too have become ghosts, as all of us will one day. The MUSIC continuing up to roll from AMERICAN PRAYER -- THE END -- snatches we annotate. Camera closing past the DOORS to JIM alone, circling the mike with his dance -- the INDIAN GHOSTMAN jigging, shaman- like, off to the side -- now levitating above the stage, all crazy, gawky dancing. on as the last absurdist images flicker off. Hissing and a big Bronx cheer summarize the feelings of the 100 odd STUDENTS crammed into a bunker-like theater. A youngish INSTRUCTOR stirs to the front row from a row of upset FACULTY. Hands shooting up to criticize. TRICK, BONES and JACK, three friends sitting next to Jim, shoot their hands up. A cacophony of voices, critics, emotions blend out over Jim's quiet eyes. He slows, a dramatic young lion pose, surveying the girls. The cronies wait, anticipating something inescapably evil to escape his lips. Camera moving to reveal JOHN DENSMORE wiry, solid on the drums... moving on to ROBBIE KRIEGER, wispy, ethereal looking, the youngest, flamenco-type moves on his early electric guitar. Also a HARMONICA PLAYER and a BASE. They all seem slightly embarrassed by either the cheap sound system feedback or Ray's warbling, but the crowd couldn't care less -- a German beerhall, they want noise and sex. JIM and his GANG, beers in hand, mouth back the words, beers everywhere shoved to the smokey ceiling, everyone on their feet, nuts with spring fever. Jim eyeing the GIRL next to him. The FOOTBALL TEAM TYPES edge over nearby, one of them picking out Jim with a glare. She looks puzzled by the suggestion. He evades the football man's grasp, elusive physicality. He hops over tables, heading for the stage. Other KIDS are up on the stage dancing, but Jim goes right up alongside RAY, shaking his hips like Elvis. Ray giving him the mike. Improv time. They love it. The place going wild. The girl with the football player wanting him. Jim slides her upstairs' door open, crawls in next to her bed. She's asleep with her boyfriend. He touches her toe. She awakes, startled. There's a crash. They turn bristling. A COYOTE lurks under the sickly light of a streetlamp, pulling its head from an overstuffed garbage can, looking back at them. She breaks into sobs, seeking his arms. He hugs her. In the notebooks, at intervals during the conversation, we see powerful sketches colored in visionary hallucinogenic William Blake mode with writing between. Books are everywhere -- panning Kerouac, Ginsberg, Nietzsche, Rimbaud, Mailer, Artaud, mythological works, shamanistic books, a library of stolen ideas. Pam shivers, a strange thought. He runs his fingers thru her hair, kissing her gently. The panties coming off. Rousseau dangling from the Venice moon. He moves a little over excited, nervous, more awkward than we might expect. RAY MANZAREK is meditating in yoga posture, longer hair as well, in his post-graduate phase, sandals, colorful hippie shirt. But the meditation is not going well. He's shaking his head at himself, frowning. Jim has approached closer, amused, looking down. Ray opening his eyes -- his POV -- Jim, slouched, jacket over his shoulder, sun behind him. Jim has crouched, digging his hand in the sand. As the grains spill out of his fist he has his eyes closed. Ray pantomimes chords in the keyboard sand. All of a sudden we're in RAY'S POV -- a mystical moment. Jim singing, no sound, then pure song, unadulterated by atmosphere. Jim stops, shrugs. Ray looks at him a long beat. Intense eyes, the manner of a man who knows what he wants and cannot be stopped. Jim laughs, loves Ray's ardor as they move along the ocean side. As they walk off, the two of them along the edge of the Pacific. A dog jumping for a frisbee. The music of MOONLIGHT DRIVE now riffs over the real song now. JIM straining to make it work, jumping around violent, The GHOST of the DEAD INDIAN is also looking at him. We are looking at JIM from its point of view -- a blur of light, some headdress, a sense of skins... music drops back, no lyrics... the voice is old, familiar, possible Spanish descent dialect or huararchi. The voice, the pretense, -- the glow too quickly fades -- leaving Jim so alone, not sure what he has heard, yet he knows he has heard, and he knows he has seen -- and once you have seen, it will never be the same again. His eyes. Camera pulling out from his eyes. There's something different tonight. Something in the air. His eyes are open, he's facing outward, gripping the mike for his life, hair falling in his face, dripping sweat, we sense all his soul concentrated in what he has to say. Cliques of GROUPIES have staked claims at the foot of the stage, eyes fucking him as he writhes, spreading his legs. Every twitch, every moment he sucks out the tension on the musical interludes generates a whip of a reaction in his audience. Nobody is moving in the club. The DANCERS are still, the GO GO GIRLS in their white plastic boots and dresses hang motionless in their gilded cages. Even the WAITRESSES have stopped, frozen with their trays, denying something is going to happen. PAMELA, DOROTHY... JERRY from the Fog, also the manager of this place, watches from the balcony, shaking his head, doesn't understand. Panning to two RECORD TYPES with him -- JAC HOLZMAN, distinguished six footer, suit, and PAUL ROTHCHILD, funky, pigtailed, ex-con, early 30s. The band has come together fully now. ROBBIE'S fingers sliding across the trembling strings, staring at the ceiling, wandering around the darkened portions of stage left, he feels Jim -- the stage as JIM looses one of his primal SCREAMS. He slobbers, drunk, slouches, stumbles, regains his balance. The Crowd loves it, but Ray senses something wrong. Robbie starts to feel the effects of the acid Jim gave him -- his eyes registering fear. During the instrumental break, Jim picks up one of the roses from the floor, pokes it at John on the drums, who whacks it to death on his skins. Jim starts to whirl the mike cord like a slingshot or bolo, in an ever-widening arc... ...it flies off and smashes into the head of the PROMOTER at the edge of the stage arguing with SIDDONS. The man is staggered, weaving, Siddons helping him to a FIRST AID TEAM. PHOTOGRAPHERS flashing cameras. BAKER urging him on from the wings as he passes out. A GIRL runs onto the stage, dumps a bottle of champagne on Jim's head. Jim takes his shirt off, soaking wet. The CROWD is also stripping in the heat, shirts, blouses, screaming so much now they are obviously way past listening to any song. It has become a view of the future -- the NAKED GIRL and BOY dancing stark naked drugged out in the middle of it all, the FAT GIRL prowling naked on the edge of the stage before she's arrested, the FIGHTS in the Crowd, fists, blood, a black man chased and beaten, the sense of Altamont here, the hippie flower trip gone to shit -- it's all come down here tonight, the end of an era. He stops singing suddenly, squinting out into the madness. The arena echoes with the uncomprehending chant of the Mob... SPECIAL EFFECT -- the INDIAN GHOST is leaving Jim's body -- spectrally moving off him, hovering there in the air, its eyes -- the face

What does Jim convince his bandmates to do?

travel to Death Valley

bristling. A COYOTE lurks under the sickly light of a streetlamp, pulling its head from an overstuffed garbage can, looking back at them. She breaks into sobs, seeking his arms. He hugs her. In the notebooks, at intervals during the conversation, we see powerful sketches colored in visionary hallucinogenic William Blake mode with writing between. Books are everywhere -- panning Kerouac, Ginsberg, Nietzsche, Rimbaud, Mailer, Artaud, mythological works, shamanistic books, a library of stolen ideas. Pam shivers, a strange thought. He runs his fingers thru her hair, kissing her gently. The panties coming off. Rousseau dangling from the Venice moon. He moves a little over excited, nervous, more awkward than we might expect. RAY MANZAREK is meditating in yoga posture, longer hair as well, in his post-graduate phase, sandals, colorful hippie shirt. But the meditation is not going well. He's shaking his head at himself, frowning. Jim has approached closer, amused, looking down. Ray opening his eyes -- his POV -- Jim, slouched, jacket over his shoulder, sun behind him. Jim has crouched, digging his hand in the sand. As the grains spill out of his fist he has his eyes closed. Ray pantomimes chords in the keyboard sand. All of a sudden we're in RAY'S POV -- a mystical moment. Jim singing, no sound, then pure song, unadulterated by atmosphere. Jim stops, shrugs. Ray looks at him a long beat. Intense eyes, the manner of a man who knows what he wants and cannot be stopped. Jim laughs, loves Ray's ardor as they move along the ocean side. As they walk off, the two of them along the edge of the Pacific. A dog jumping for a frisbee. The music of MOONLIGHT DRIVE now riffs over the real song now. JIM straining to make it work, jumping around violent, echoes him back with his flamenco-blues guitar. JOHN on drums, reading Jim's moods, throws in the spontaneous and violent riffs that keep it savage. He literally tortures Jim's ears with his drums. And RAY, concentrated with his nodding head like a big flamingo over his keyboard, mixing it up, throwing curves, yet also -- and more delicately -- torturing Jim with the messianic organ sounds that shriek in his ears. There is something of Merlin in Ray -- the alchemist knowing how to play Jim. And JIM -- "that sneaky silent lithe flowing flexing animal" -- ready at last to share both his body and his soul with the world, to live out the words of the Indian prophet... to lead. Ray looks over up from his board, catches Robby with a 'what's this?' look... They go with it, improvising... Jim clutching the mike tighter, seeking solace in its arms; it all hangs in the air as if he doesn't have any idea what he's going to say next. Pamela sensing something is coming... the AUDIENCE... Jerry... the go-go dancers... FLASH -- A FATHER'S FACE, any face, older, any man... FLASH -- A MOTHER'S FACE, any face, older, a woman As the AUDIENCE gasps, shocked, stunned... As the guitar hits a high, horrid reverb, JIM in slightly SLOW MOTION suddenly tightens his backbone as if electrocuted and shoots violently backwards, hitting the floor like a puppet cut from his string -- we sense Jim himself has crossed a barrier now, gone into yet another stage of his performance, a stage from which he can never return. Like the gunfighter who has killed his first man. RAY sees it instantly where it's going, hits the organ! Robbie and John follow. the instruments EXPLODE all at once trying to bury Jim in The GHOST of the DEAD INDIAN is also looking at him. We are looking at JIM from its point of view -- a blur of light, some headdress, a sense of skins... music drops back, no lyrics... the voice is old, familiar, possible Spanish descent dialect or huararchi. The voice, the pretense, -- the glow too quickly fades -- leaving Jim so alone, not sure what he has heard, yet he knows he has heard, and he knows he has seen -- and once you have seen, it will never be the same again. His eyes. Camera pulling out from his eyes. There's something different tonight. Something in the air. His eyes are open, he's facing outward, gripping the mike for his life, hair falling in his face, dripping sweat, we sense all his soul concentrated in what he has to say. Cliques of GROUPIES have staked claims at the foot of the stage, eyes fucking him as he writhes, spreading his legs. Every twitch, every moment he sucks out the tension on the musical interludes generates a whip of a reaction in his audience. Nobody is moving in the club. The DANCERS are still, the GO GO GIRLS in their white plastic boots and dresses hang motionless in their gilded cages. Even the WAITRESSES have stopped, frozen with their trays, denying something is going to happen. PAMELA, DOROTHY... JERRY from the Fog, also the manager of this place, watches from the balcony, shaking his head, doesn't understand. Panning to two RECORD TYPES with him -- JAC HOLZMAN, distinguished six footer, suit, and PAUL ROTHCHILD, funky, pigtailed, ex-con, early 30s. The band has come together fully now. ROBBIE'S fingers sliding across the trembling strings, staring at the ceiling, wandering around the darkened portions of stage left, he feels Jim -- his primal unmistakeable scream. The CLUB in shock. Tribal taboo broken in one instant. Jerry exploding off the balcony toward the stage... Pamela, extremely moved and impressed, and Dorothy... the go- go girls, as jaded as they come, are stunned tension... the groupies love it. Jim has jumped up now, dancing an Indian war dance around the mike. Jerry pinning Jim to the wall, Lost in the melee, RAY and JOHN springing Jim back from likely death JAC HOLZMAN pushing past to Ray. Pamela separating Jim visually from Jerry. Holzman pauses, a dramatic presence, six foot two, impeccably dressed, he knows the weight of his words. It hangs there. Impossible words. John and Robbie sharing looks. Strains of LIGHT MY FIRE cross the cut. Camera moving fast thru the control room, past the ENGINEER (BRUCE BOTNICK), taciturn, 20's, the PRODUCER (PAUL ROTHCHILD) in pig heaven, and the owner JAC HOLZMAN in his blue suit watching. Camera moving fast past a smiling PAM watching, out to the DOORS on the floor, jamming... on to JIM in the vocal booth, headphone to his ears. The song, now fully -- orchestrated, rolling on over the following MONTAGE: A staged 16mm. grainy shot of JIM and PAMELA, RAY and DOROTHY, JOHN, ROBBIE and their TWO NEW GIRLFRIENDS wandering thru the CROWD sharing the spirit. Pam and Jim fool around -- laughing -- tickling each other for the home movie camera shot by Ray... Pam is goofy, makes funny faces, teases him running a flower under his nose, thru his hair, then trips him. He chases her across the lawn. JIM swandives into the stoned crowd with the mike at the instrumental section, a colored spotlight flecking him, GIRLS kiss him. The guys want to be him, the girls want him -- and he knows A terrible accident... The first thing Jim sees... An old INDIAN FACE staring at him... Grandma trying to hide Jim's face but he looks back... The boy's eyes going back to the Indian MAN looking at him... then to the dying opened body bleeding out its guts on the asphalt... the dying man's face, twisted, moaning, amazing eyes at the point of death -- they settle on Jim A strange SOUND occurs -- the rattle of an ancient gourd, "shi-chi-chi, shi-chi-chi". Something flying through the air. A bull-roarer, a whirling leather thong, announcing the appearance of a shaman. INTO JIM -- his eyes staring out the back His receding point of view -- the Indians, the overturned truck... The car pulling away across the giant 1940's landscape A LARGE LIZARD in the dust cocks its head, blinks, as the boots walk by to the car pulling over. The HUSBAND, now looking at Jim a little nervously, pushes up the Perry Como on the radio... as it cuts to a sudden news flash: SLOW MOTION: The Husband's face distorting, saying something on the track like: "What! God NO!" but it's subdued, low. Trying other stations. Jim turns to look out his window, as if he already knew. The WIFE'S and HUSBAND'S VOICES seem lost in the background. JIM, in torn black chinos, no shirt, walking real slow past it all, carrying a notebook of his own and a paperback of Baudelaire, his eyes settling on... A YOUNG BEAUTY and her yellow labrador -- a fashionable thin, long, red-haired "20th century fox" in jeans moving through the crowd... He thinks about it -- a fraction of eternity -- and he's off... after her. She's on the upstairs balcony -- talking with a YOUNG MAN (professor type) in his 30's, who passes her

After becoming a success, what image does Jim become infatuated with?

He is infatuated with his personal image of "The Lizard King" which causes him to fall into alcoholism and drug abuse.

The GHOST of the DEAD INDIAN is also looking at him. We are looking at JIM from its point of view -- a blur of light, some headdress, a sense of skins... music drops back, no lyrics... the voice is old, familiar, possible Spanish descent dialect or huararchi. The voice, the pretense, -- the glow too quickly fades -- leaving Jim so alone, not sure what he has heard, yet he knows he has heard, and he knows he has seen -- and once you have seen, it will never be the same again. His eyes. Camera pulling out from his eyes. There's something different tonight. Something in the air. His eyes are open, he's facing outward, gripping the mike for his life, hair falling in his face, dripping sweat, we sense all his soul concentrated in what he has to say. Cliques of GROUPIES have staked claims at the foot of the stage, eyes fucking him as he writhes, spreading his legs. Every twitch, every moment he sucks out the tension on the musical interludes generates a whip of a reaction in his audience. Nobody is moving in the club. The DANCERS are still, the GO GO GIRLS in their white plastic boots and dresses hang motionless in their gilded cages. Even the WAITRESSES have stopped, frozen with their trays, denying something is going to happen. PAMELA, DOROTHY... JERRY from the Fog, also the manager of this place, watches from the balcony, shaking his head, doesn't understand. Panning to two RECORD TYPES with him -- JAC HOLZMAN, distinguished six footer, suit, and PAUL ROTHCHILD, funky, pigtailed, ex-con, early 30s. The band has come together fully now. ROBBIE'S fingers sliding across the trembling strings, staring at the ceiling, wandering around the darkened portions of stage left, he feels Jim -- on as the last absurdist images flicker off. Hissing and a big Bronx cheer summarize the feelings of the 100 odd STUDENTS crammed into a bunker-like theater. A youngish INSTRUCTOR stirs to the front row from a row of upset FACULTY. Hands shooting up to criticize. TRICK, BONES and JACK, three friends sitting next to Jim, shoot their hands up. A cacophony of voices, critics, emotions blend out over Jim's quiet eyes. He slows, a dramatic young lion pose, surveying the girls. The cronies wait, anticipating something inescapably evil to escape his lips. Camera moving to reveal JOHN DENSMORE wiry, solid on the drums... moving on to ROBBIE KRIEGER, wispy, ethereal looking, the youngest, flamenco-type moves on his early electric guitar. Also a HARMONICA PLAYER and a BASE. They all seem slightly embarrassed by either the cheap sound system feedback or Ray's warbling, but the crowd couldn't care less -- a German beerhall, they want noise and sex. JIM and his GANG, beers in hand, mouth back the words, beers everywhere shoved to the smokey ceiling, everyone on their feet, nuts with spring fever. Jim eyeing the GIRL next to him. The FOOTBALL TEAM TYPES edge over nearby, one of them picking out Jim with a glare. She looks puzzled by the suggestion. He evades the football man's grasp, elusive physicality. He hops over tables, heading for the stage. Other KIDS are up on the stage dancing, but Jim goes right up alongside RAY, shaking his hips like Elvis. Ray giving him the mike. Improv time. They love it. The place going wild. The girl with the football player wanting him. Jim slides her upstairs' door open, crawls in next to her bed. She's asleep with her boyfriend. He touches her toe. She awakes, startled. There's a crash. They turn bristling. A COYOTE lurks under the sickly light of a streetlamp, pulling its head from an overstuffed garbage can, looking back at them. She breaks into sobs, seeking his arms. He hugs her. In the notebooks, at intervals during the conversation, we see powerful sketches colored in visionary hallucinogenic William Blake mode with writing between. Books are everywhere -- panning Kerouac, Ginsberg, Nietzsche, Rimbaud, Mailer, Artaud, mythological works, shamanistic books, a library of stolen ideas. Pam shivers, a strange thought. He runs his fingers thru her hair, kissing her gently. The panties coming off. Rousseau dangling from the Venice moon. He moves a little over excited, nervous, more awkward than we might expect. RAY MANZAREK is meditating in yoga posture, longer hair as well, in his post-graduate phase, sandals, colorful hippie shirt. But the meditation is not going well. He's shaking his head at himself, frowning. Jim has approached closer, amused, looking down. Ray opening his eyes -- his POV -- Jim, slouched, jacket over his shoulder, sun behind him. Jim has crouched, digging his hand in the sand. As the grains spill out of his fist he has his eyes closed. Ray pantomimes chords in the keyboard sand. All of a sudden we're in RAY'S POV -- a mystical moment. Jim singing, no sound, then pure song, unadulterated by atmosphere. Jim stops, shrugs. Ray looks at him a long beat. Intense eyes, the manner of a man who knows what he wants and cannot be stopped. Jim laughs, loves Ray's ardor as they move along the ocean side. As they walk off, the two of them along the edge of the Pacific. A dog jumping for a frisbee. The music of MOONLIGHT DRIVE now riffs over the real song now. JIM straining to make it work, jumping around violent, his primal unmistakeable scream. The CLUB in shock. Tribal taboo broken in one instant. Jerry exploding off the balcony toward the stage... Pamela, extremely moved and impressed, and Dorothy... the go- go girls, as jaded as they come, are stunned tension... the groupies love it. Jim has jumped up now, dancing an Indian war dance around the mike. Jerry pinning Jim to the wall, Lost in the melee, RAY and JOHN springing Jim back from likely death JAC HOLZMAN pushing past to Ray. Pamela separating Jim visually from Jerry. Holzman pauses, a dramatic presence, six foot two, impeccably dressed, he knows the weight of his words. It hangs there. Impossible words. John and Robbie sharing looks. Strains of LIGHT MY FIRE cross the cut. Camera moving fast thru the control room, past the ENGINEER (BRUCE BOTNICK), taciturn, 20's, the PRODUCER (PAUL ROTHCHILD) in pig heaven, and the owner JAC HOLZMAN in his blue suit watching. Camera moving fast past a smiling PAM watching, out to the DOORS on the floor, jamming... on to JIM in the vocal booth, headphone to his ears. The song, now fully -- orchestrated, rolling on over the following MONTAGE: A staged 16mm. grainy shot of JIM and PAMELA, RAY and DOROTHY, JOHN, ROBBIE and their TWO NEW GIRLFRIENDS wandering thru the CROWD sharing the spirit. Pam and Jim fool around -- laughing -- tickling each other for the home movie camera shot by Ray... Pam is goofy, makes funny faces, teases him running a flower under his nose, thru his hair, then trips him. He chases her across the lawn. JIM swandives into the stoned crowd with the mike at the instrumental section, a colored spotlight flecking him, GIRLS kiss him. The guys want to be him, the girls want him -- and he knows echoes him back with his flamenco-blues guitar. JOHN on drums, reading Jim's moods, throws in the spontaneous and violent riffs that keep it savage. He literally tortures Jim's ears with his drums. And RAY, concentrated with his nodding head like a big flamingo over his keyboard, mixing it up, throwing curves, yet also -- and more delicately -- torturing Jim with the messianic organ sounds that shriek in his ears. There is something of Merlin in Ray -- the alchemist knowing how to play Jim. And JIM -- "that sneaky silent lithe flowing flexing animal" -- ready at last to share both his body and his soul with the world, to live out the words of the Indian prophet... to lead. Ray looks over up from his board, catches Robby with a 'what's this?' look... They go with it, improvising... Jim clutching the mike tighter, seeking solace in its arms; it all hangs in the air as if he doesn't have any idea what he's going to say next. Pamela sensing something is coming... the AUDIENCE... Jerry... the go-go dancers... FLASH -- A FATHER'S FACE, any face, older, any man... FLASH -- A MOTHER'S FACE, any face, older, a woman As the AUDIENCE gasps, shocked, stunned... As the guitar hits a high, horrid reverb, JIM in slightly SLOW MOTION suddenly tightens his backbone as if electrocuted and shoots violently backwards, hitting the floor like a puppet cut from his string -- we sense Jim himself has crossed a barrier now, gone into yet another stage of his performance, a stage from which he can never return. Like the gunfighter who has killed his first man. RAY sees it instantly where it's going, hits the organ! Robbie and John follow. the instruments EXPLODE all at once trying to bury Jim in

What does Jim participate in with Patricia?

He participates in mystical ceremonies and joins in a handfasting ceremony.

in his mustang -- making a shakey, screeching curve at the bend of the beach. And he's gone. An ominous ROAR of an AIRPLANE above RAY. -- flying away. The ENGINEER, exhausted, doesn't feel anything funny. The poets face brightens. A small but ever-so-sweet smile of triumph hikes up the corners of his mouth. He stands, sways, than moves out of view. The empty bottle of whiskey, its sands run out, is left behind. As we FADE OUT, a hardy, mischievous Morrison laugh and a ripple of sensuous MUSIC carry us into the lilting, lamenting strains of AN AMERICAN PRAYER -- THE END without lyrics for now as we cut to: Looks at the time. Somewhere near dawn. The sounds of a bath being drawn. Nightmare or sleep? She tries to fade back to sleep but the MUSIC and the WHISPERING prod her, pull her awake... His face. At peace, as she sobs, the MUSIC cresting to Jim's lyrics. The MUSIC rolling up on: The AUDIENCE is out there somewhere in the dark -- we sense they too have become ghosts, as all of us will one day. The MUSIC continuing up to roll from AMERICAN PRAYER -- THE END -- snatches we annotate. Camera closing past the DOORS to JIM alone, circling the mike with his dance -- the INDIAN GHOSTMAN jigging, shaman- like, off to the side -- now levitating above the stage, all crazy, gawky dancing. The GHOST of the DEAD INDIAN is also looking at him. We are looking at JIM from its point of view -- a blur of light, some headdress, a sense of skins... music drops back, no lyrics... the voice is old, familiar, possible Spanish descent dialect or huararchi. The voice, the pretense, -- the glow too quickly fades -- leaving Jim so alone, not sure what he has heard, yet he knows he has heard, and he knows he has seen -- and once you have seen, it will never be the same again. His eyes. Camera pulling out from his eyes. There's something different tonight. Something in the air. His eyes are open, he's facing outward, gripping the mike for his life, hair falling in his face, dripping sweat, we sense all his soul concentrated in what he has to say. Cliques of GROUPIES have staked claims at the foot of the stage, eyes fucking him as he writhes, spreading his legs. Every twitch, every moment he sucks out the tension on the musical interludes generates a whip of a reaction in his audience. Nobody is moving in the club. The DANCERS are still, the GO GO GIRLS in their white plastic boots and dresses hang motionless in their gilded cages. Even the WAITRESSES have stopped, frozen with their trays, denying something is going to happen. PAMELA, DOROTHY... JERRY from the Fog, also the manager of this place, watches from the balcony, shaking his head, doesn't understand. Panning to two RECORD TYPES with him -- JAC HOLZMAN, distinguished six footer, suit, and PAUL ROTHCHILD, funky, pigtailed, ex-con, early 30s. The band has come together fully now. ROBBIE'S fingers sliding across the trembling strings, staring at the ceiling, wandering around the darkened portions of stage left, he feels Jim -- on as the last absurdist images flicker off. Hissing and a big Bronx cheer summarize the feelings of the 100 odd STUDENTS crammed into a bunker-like theater. A youngish INSTRUCTOR stirs to the front row from a row of upset FACULTY. Hands shooting up to criticize. TRICK, BONES and JACK, three friends sitting next to Jim, shoot their hands up. A cacophony of voices, critics, emotions blend out over Jim's quiet eyes. He slows, a dramatic young lion pose, surveying the girls. The cronies wait, anticipating something inescapably evil to escape his lips. Camera moving to reveal JOHN DENSMORE wiry, solid on the drums... moving on to ROBBIE KRIEGER, wispy, ethereal looking, the youngest, flamenco-type moves on his early electric guitar. Also a HARMONICA PLAYER and a BASE. They all seem slightly embarrassed by either the cheap sound system feedback or Ray's warbling, but the crowd couldn't care less -- a German beerhall, they want noise and sex. JIM and his GANG, beers in hand, mouth back the words, beers everywhere shoved to the smokey ceiling, everyone on their feet, nuts with spring fever. Jim eyeing the GIRL next to him. The FOOTBALL TEAM TYPES edge over nearby, one of them picking out Jim with a glare. She looks puzzled by the suggestion. He evades the football man's grasp, elusive physicality. He hops over tables, heading for the stage. Other KIDS are up on the stage dancing, but Jim goes right up alongside RAY, shaking his hips like Elvis. Ray giving him the mike. Improv time. They love it. The place going wild. The girl with the football player wanting him. Jim slides her upstairs' door open, crawls in next to her bed. She's asleep with her boyfriend. He touches her toe. She awakes, startled. There's a crash. They turn of a dying Indian on an Arizona highway -- then gone. A moment, only three, four beats. An optical illusion? Maybe. Or is it saying, 'now you are just a white man'... maybe not. As it drifts off in a cloud, into the vast audience's EYEBALL. He waits. INTERCUTS of the FACES in the crowd. Jim pulling his shirt off -- barechested -- waving it like a toreador in front of his leather crotch. The audience seems to be paying no attention to what he is doing or saying, which drives him to deeper rage. He saunters to the edge of the stage. Hisses at them. He clasps his crotch, leering at a cute LITTLE GIRL in the front row, shaking it at her. Her BOYFRIEND, pissed at Jim, runs for the stage. Jim unzips his leathers. He feigns opening his belt and exposing himself, flipping his shirt back and forth over the crotch in a mock striptease. A flock of TEENAGE GIRLS are sure they've seen it, hysterical. RAY starts playing BREAK ON THROUGH trying to keep things normal. JIM now out there in the arena in a CONGA LINE, doing his rain dance, hands on hips, the TEENAGERS forming a long snake behind him. The huge speaker columns teeter and fall. A corner of the STAGE now COLLAPSES from the weight, PEOPLE spilling on the floor, screams. The power console tips over next to DENSMORE. He bails. Manzarek and Krieger follow. The PROMOTER is yelling at SIDDONS about his insurance contract as the COPS and FBI AGENTS close in, looking for Jim. Who is out there leading his naked drunken FLOCK, hundreds of them in a phallic Pied Piper dance thru the darkened seaplane hanger. From BREAK ON THROUGH PART TWO: Ray watching from the corner of the his primal unmistakeable scream. The CLUB in shock. Tribal taboo broken in one instant. Jerry exploding off the balcony toward the stage... Pamela, extremely moved and impressed, and Dorothy... the go- go girls, as jaded as they come, are stunned tension... the groupies love it. Jim has jumped up now, dancing an Indian war dance around the mike. Jerry pinning Jim to the wall, Lost in the melee, RAY and JOHN springing Jim back from likely death JAC HOLZMAN pushing past to Ray. Pamela separating Jim visually from Jerry. Holzman pauses, a dramatic presence, six foot two, impeccably dressed, he knows the weight of his words. It hangs there. Impossible words. John and Robbie sharing looks. Strains of LIGHT MY FIRE cross the cut. Camera moving fast thru the control room, past the ENGINEER (BRUCE BOTNICK), taciturn, 20's, the PRODUCER (PAUL ROTHCHILD) in pig heaven, and the owner JAC HOLZMAN in his blue suit watching. Camera moving fast past a smiling PAM watching, out to the DOORS on the floor, jamming... on to JIM in the vocal booth, headphone to his ears. The song, now fully -- orchestrated, rolling on over the following MONTAGE: A staged 16mm. grainy shot of JIM and PAMELA, RAY and DOROTHY, JOHN, ROBBIE and their TWO NEW GIRLFRIENDS wandering thru the CROWD sharing the spirit. Pam and Jim fool around -- laughing -- tickling each other for the home movie camera shot by Ray... Pam is goofy, makes funny faces, teases him running a flower under his nose, thru his hair, then trips him. He chases her across the lawn. JIM swandives into the stoned crowd with the mike at the instrumental section, a colored spotlight flecking him, GIRLS kiss him. The guys want to be him, the girls want him -- and he knows

What ultimately causes a downfall for the band?

Jim arrives late to a concert in Miami, confronts the crowd and also exposes himself while onstage.

The GHOST of the DEAD INDIAN is also looking at him. We are looking at JIM from its point of view -- a blur of light, some headdress, a sense of skins... music drops back, no lyrics... the voice is old, familiar, possible Spanish descent dialect or huararchi. The voice, the pretense, -- the glow too quickly fades -- leaving Jim so alone, not sure what he has heard, yet he knows he has heard, and he knows he has seen -- and once you have seen, it will never be the same again. His eyes. Camera pulling out from his eyes. There's something different tonight. Something in the air. His eyes are open, he's facing outward, gripping the mike for his life, hair falling in his face, dripping sweat, we sense all his soul concentrated in what he has to say. Cliques of GROUPIES have staked claims at the foot of the stage, eyes fucking him as he writhes, spreading his legs. Every twitch, every moment he sucks out the tension on the musical interludes generates a whip of a reaction in his audience. Nobody is moving in the club. The DANCERS are still, the GO GO GIRLS in their white plastic boots and dresses hang motionless in their gilded cages. Even the WAITRESSES have stopped, frozen with their trays, denying something is going to happen. PAMELA, DOROTHY... JERRY from the Fog, also the manager of this place, watches from the balcony, shaking his head, doesn't understand. Panning to two RECORD TYPES with him -- JAC HOLZMAN, distinguished six footer, suit, and PAUL ROTHCHILD, funky, pigtailed, ex-con, early 30s. The band has come together fully now. ROBBIE'S fingers sliding across the trembling strings, staring at the ceiling, wandering around the darkened portions of stage left, he feels Jim -- on as the last absurdist images flicker off. Hissing and a big Bronx cheer summarize the feelings of the 100 odd STUDENTS crammed into a bunker-like theater. A youngish INSTRUCTOR stirs to the front row from a row of upset FACULTY. Hands shooting up to criticize. TRICK, BONES and JACK, three friends sitting next to Jim, shoot their hands up. A cacophony of voices, critics, emotions blend out over Jim's quiet eyes. He slows, a dramatic young lion pose, surveying the girls. The cronies wait, anticipating something inescapably evil to escape his lips. Camera moving to reveal JOHN DENSMORE wiry, solid on the drums... moving on to ROBBIE KRIEGER, wispy, ethereal looking, the youngest, flamenco-type moves on his early electric guitar. Also a HARMONICA PLAYER and a BASE. They all seem slightly embarrassed by either the cheap sound system feedback or Ray's warbling, but the crowd couldn't care less -- a German beerhall, they want noise and sex. JIM and his GANG, beers in hand, mouth back the words, beers everywhere shoved to the smokey ceiling, everyone on their feet, nuts with spring fever. Jim eyeing the GIRL next to him. The FOOTBALL TEAM TYPES edge over nearby, one of them picking out Jim with a glare. She looks puzzled by the suggestion. He evades the football man's grasp, elusive physicality. He hops over tables, heading for the stage. Other KIDS are up on the stage dancing, but Jim goes right up alongside RAY, shaking his hips like Elvis. Ray giving him the mike. Improv time. They love it. The place going wild. The girl with the football player wanting him. Jim slides her upstairs' door open, crawls in next to her bed. She's asleep with her boyfriend. He touches her toe. She awakes, startled. There's a crash. They turn the stage as JIM looses one of his primal SCREAMS. He slobbers, drunk, slouches, stumbles, regains his balance. The Crowd loves it, but Ray senses something wrong. Robbie starts to feel the effects of the acid Jim gave him -- his eyes registering fear. During the instrumental break, Jim picks up one of the roses from the floor, pokes it at John on the drums, who whacks it to death on his skins. Jim starts to whirl the mike cord like a slingshot or bolo, in an ever-widening arc... ...it flies off and smashes into the head of the PROMOTER at the edge of the stage arguing with SIDDONS. The man is staggered, weaving, Siddons helping him to a FIRST AID TEAM. PHOTOGRAPHERS flashing cameras. BAKER urging him on from the wings as he passes out. A GIRL runs onto the stage, dumps a bottle of champagne on Jim's head. Jim takes his shirt off, soaking wet. The CROWD is also stripping in the heat, shirts, blouses, screaming so much now they are obviously way past listening to any song. It has become a view of the future -- the NAKED GIRL and BOY dancing stark naked drugged out in the middle of it all, the FAT GIRL prowling naked on the edge of the stage before she's arrested, the FIGHTS in the Crowd, fists, blood, a black man chased and beaten, the sense of Altamont here, the hippie flower trip gone to shit -- it's all come down here tonight, the end of an era. He stops singing suddenly, squinting out into the madness. The arena echoes with the uncomprehending chant of the Mob... SPECIAL EFFECT -- the INDIAN GHOST is leaving Jim's body -- spectrally moving off him, hovering there in the air, its eyes -- the face echoes him back with his flamenco-blues guitar. JOHN on drums, reading Jim's moods, throws in the spontaneous and violent riffs that keep it savage. He literally tortures Jim's ears with his drums. And RAY, concentrated with his nodding head like a big flamingo over his keyboard, mixing it up, throwing curves, yet also -- and more delicately -- torturing Jim with the messianic organ sounds that shriek in his ears. There is something of Merlin in Ray -- the alchemist knowing how to play Jim. And JIM -- "that sneaky silent lithe flowing flexing animal" -- ready at last to share both his body and his soul with the world, to live out the words of the Indian prophet... to lead. Ray looks over up from his board, catches Robby with a 'what's this?' look... They go with it, improvising... Jim clutching the mike tighter, seeking solace in its arms; it all hangs in the air as if he doesn't have any idea what he's going to say next. Pamela sensing something is coming... the AUDIENCE... Jerry... the go-go dancers... FLASH -- A FATHER'S FACE, any face, older, any man... FLASH -- A MOTHER'S FACE, any face, older, a woman As the AUDIENCE gasps, shocked, stunned... As the guitar hits a high, horrid reverb, JIM in slightly SLOW MOTION suddenly tightens his backbone as if electrocuted and shoots violently backwards, hitting the floor like a puppet cut from his string -- we sense Jim himself has crossed a barrier now, gone into yet another stage of his performance, a stage from which he can never return. Like the gunfighter who has killed his first man. RAY sees it instantly where it's going, hits the organ! Robbie and John follow. the instruments EXPLODE all at once trying to bury Jim in each other. If Hieronymus Bosch had painted a rock concert, this would be it. Meanwhile, JOHN arguing with RAY and JIM who sways, drunk. The FBI agents get lost in the background. As JIM brings up a tiny vial with a lubricating head on it, holds it to Robbie's lips playfully. They're in the shadows. Something so sincere in Jim's eyes. Robbie takes the fatal lick. Jim smiles manically as the NUREMBERG SOUNDS of the CROWD drown them out. JIM spreading his arms like Icarus set to fly. The ROARS redouble, their FEET stomping out: COPS everywhere looking as... He lights it. The CROWD going nuts as the DOORS go into the ominous introductory strains of FIVE TO ONE trying to get the onus off Jim and the show on the road. The Audience knows the song, go into a primal FOOT STOMP with it. Bras are thrown on stage. Kids writhe madly in the primal Doors dance. People with SPARKLERS running through the hangar. CAMERA FLASHBULBS popping throughout the show... get Jim on film while you can. Jim, drunk, high, smoking the jay, won't go into the lyrics right off, forcing the Doors to circle the beat again. He jerks his hand back from the mike as if it were a hot wire. The Crowd yelling something. An INSANE TEENAGER stands on the railing of a balcony above the auditorium, poised to swan dive some 18 feet into the crowd. Which he now does, arms held out like wings. The Crowd yells, parting to allow his bulk to smack the floor. Pause. Cops rushing to the spot. The KID suddenly stands up, unhurt, with a stoned out look on his face. Then splits at a full run thru the crowd chased by the perplexed Cops. Everybody surging back towards

What was the verdict in Jim's case?

Jim was found guilty of indecent exposure.

on as the last absurdist images flicker off. Hissing and a big Bronx cheer summarize the feelings of the 100 odd STUDENTS crammed into a bunker-like theater. A youngish INSTRUCTOR stirs to the front row from a row of upset FACULTY. Hands shooting up to criticize. TRICK, BONES and JACK, three friends sitting next to Jim, shoot their hands up. A cacophony of voices, critics, emotions blend out over Jim's quiet eyes. He slows, a dramatic young lion pose, surveying the girls. The cronies wait, anticipating something inescapably evil to escape his lips. Camera moving to reveal JOHN DENSMORE wiry, solid on the drums... moving on to ROBBIE KRIEGER, wispy, ethereal looking, the youngest, flamenco-type moves on his early electric guitar. Also a HARMONICA PLAYER and a BASE. They all seem slightly embarrassed by either the cheap sound system feedback or Ray's warbling, but the crowd couldn't care less -- a German beerhall, they want noise and sex. JIM and his GANG, beers in hand, mouth back the words, beers everywhere shoved to the smokey ceiling, everyone on their feet, nuts with spring fever. Jim eyeing the GIRL next to him. The FOOTBALL TEAM TYPES edge over nearby, one of them picking out Jim with a glare. She looks puzzled by the suggestion. He evades the football man's grasp, elusive physicality. He hops over tables, heading for the stage. Other KIDS are up on the stage dancing, but Jim goes right up alongside RAY, shaking his hips like Elvis. Ray giving him the mike. Improv time. They love it. The place going wild. The girl with the football player wanting him. Jim slides her upstairs' door open, crawls in next to her bed. She's asleep with her boyfriend. He touches her toe. She awakes, startled. There's a crash. They turn The GHOST of the DEAD INDIAN is also looking at him. We are looking at JIM from its point of view -- a blur of light, some headdress, a sense of skins... music drops back, no lyrics... the voice is old, familiar, possible Spanish descent dialect or huararchi. The voice, the pretense, -- the glow too quickly fades -- leaving Jim so alone, not sure what he has heard, yet he knows he has heard, and he knows he has seen -- and once you have seen, it will never be the same again. His eyes. Camera pulling out from his eyes. There's something different tonight. Something in the air. His eyes are open, he's facing outward, gripping the mike for his life, hair falling in his face, dripping sweat, we sense all his soul concentrated in what he has to say. Cliques of GROUPIES have staked claims at the foot of the stage, eyes fucking him as he writhes, spreading his legs. Every twitch, every moment he sucks out the tension on the musical interludes generates a whip of a reaction in his audience. Nobody is moving in the club. The DANCERS are still, the GO GO GIRLS in their white plastic boots and dresses hang motionless in their gilded cages. Even the WAITRESSES have stopped, frozen with their trays, denying something is going to happen. PAMELA, DOROTHY... JERRY from the Fog, also the manager of this place, watches from the balcony, shaking his head, doesn't understand. Panning to two RECORD TYPES with him -- JAC HOLZMAN, distinguished six footer, suit, and PAUL ROTHCHILD, funky, pigtailed, ex-con, early 30s. The band has come together fully now. ROBBIE'S fingers sliding across the trembling strings, staring at the ceiling, wandering around the darkened portions of stage left, he feels Jim -- bristling. A COYOTE lurks under the sickly light of a streetlamp, pulling its head from an overstuffed garbage can, looking back at them. She breaks into sobs, seeking his arms. He hugs her. In the notebooks, at intervals during the conversation, we see powerful sketches colored in visionary hallucinogenic William Blake mode with writing between. Books are everywhere -- panning Kerouac, Ginsberg, Nietzsche, Rimbaud, Mailer, Artaud, mythological works, shamanistic books, a library of stolen ideas. Pam shivers, a strange thought. He runs his fingers thru her hair, kissing her gently. The panties coming off. Rousseau dangling from the Venice moon. He moves a little over excited, nervous, more awkward than we might expect. RAY MANZAREK is meditating in yoga posture, longer hair as well, in his post-graduate phase, sandals, colorful hippie shirt. But the meditation is not going well. He's shaking his head at himself, frowning. Jim has approached closer, amused, looking down. Ray opening his eyes -- his POV -- Jim, slouched, jacket over his shoulder, sun behind him. Jim has crouched, digging his hand in the sand. As the grains spill out of his fist he has his eyes closed. Ray pantomimes chords in the keyboard sand. All of a sudden we're in RAY'S POV -- a mystical moment. Jim singing, no sound, then pure song, unadulterated by atmosphere. Jim stops, shrugs. Ray looks at him a long beat. Intense eyes, the manner of a man who knows what he wants and cannot be stopped. Jim laughs, loves Ray's ardor as they move along the ocean side. As they walk off, the two of them along the edge of the Pacific. A dog jumping for a frisbee. The music of MOONLIGHT DRIVE now riffs over the real song now. JIM straining to make it work, jumping around violent, of a dying Indian on an Arizona highway -- then gone. A moment, only three, four beats. An optical illusion? Maybe. Or is it saying, 'now you are just a white man'... maybe not. As it drifts off in a cloud, into the vast audience's EYEBALL. He waits. INTERCUTS of the FACES in the crowd. Jim pulling his shirt off -- barechested -- waving it like a toreador in front of his leather crotch. The audience seems to be paying no attention to what he is doing or saying, which drives him to deeper rage. He saunters to the edge of the stage. Hisses at them. He clasps his crotch, leering at a cute LITTLE GIRL in the front row, shaking it at her. Her BOYFRIEND, pissed at Jim, runs for the stage. Jim unzips his leathers. He feigns opening his belt and exposing himself, flipping his shirt back and forth over the crotch in a mock striptease. A flock of TEENAGE GIRLS are sure they've seen it, hysterical. RAY starts playing BREAK ON THROUGH trying to keep things normal. JIM now out there in the arena in a CONGA LINE, doing his rain dance, hands on hips, the TEENAGERS forming a long snake behind him. The huge speaker columns teeter and fall. A corner of the STAGE now COLLAPSES from the weight, PEOPLE spilling on the floor, screams. The power console tips over next to DENSMORE. He bails. Manzarek and Krieger follow. The PROMOTER is yelling at SIDDONS about his insurance contract as the COPS and FBI AGENTS close in, looking for Jim. Who is out there leading his naked drunken FLOCK, hundreds of them in a phallic Pied Piper dance thru the darkened seaplane hanger. From BREAK ON THROUGH PART TWO: Ray watching from the corner of the echoes him back with his flamenco-blues guitar. JOHN on drums, reading Jim's moods, throws in the spontaneous and violent riffs that keep it savage. He literally tortures Jim's ears with his drums. And RAY, concentrated with his nodding head like a big flamingo over his keyboard, mixing it up, throwing curves, yet also -- and more delicately -- torturing Jim with the messianic organ sounds that shriek in his ears. There is something of Merlin in Ray -- the alchemist knowing how to play Jim. And JIM -- "that sneaky silent lithe flowing flexing animal" -- ready at last to share both his body and his soul with the world, to live out the words of the Indian prophet... to lead. Ray looks over up from his board, catches Robby with a 'what's this?' look... They go with it, improvising... Jim clutching the mike tighter, seeking solace in its arms; it all hangs in the air as if he doesn't have any idea what he's going to say next. Pamela sensing something is coming... the AUDIENCE... Jerry... the go-go dancers... FLASH -- A FATHER'S FACE, any face, older, any man... FLASH -- A MOTHER'S FACE, any face, older, a woman As the AUDIENCE gasps, shocked, stunned... As the guitar hits a high, horrid reverb, JIM in slightly SLOW MOTION suddenly tightens his backbone as if electrocuted and shoots violently backwards, hitting the floor like a puppet cut from his string -- we sense Jim himself has crossed a barrier now, gone into yet another stage of his performance, a stage from which he can never return. Like the gunfighter who has killed his first man. RAY sees it instantly where it's going, hits the organ! Robbie and John follow. the instruments EXPLODE all at once trying to bury Jim in

What do Jim and Patricia do when they find out she is pregnant?

Patricia is convinced to have an abortion.

bristling. A COYOTE lurks under the sickly light of a streetlamp, pulling its head from an overstuffed garbage can, looking back at them. She breaks into sobs, seeking his arms. He hugs her. In the notebooks, at intervals during the conversation, we see powerful sketches colored in visionary hallucinogenic William Blake mode with writing between. Books are everywhere -- panning Kerouac, Ginsberg, Nietzsche, Rimbaud, Mailer, Artaud, mythological works, shamanistic books, a library of stolen ideas. Pam shivers, a strange thought. He runs his fingers thru her hair, kissing her gently. The panties coming off. Rousseau dangling from the Venice moon. He moves a little over excited, nervous, more awkward than we might expect. RAY MANZAREK is meditating in yoga posture, longer hair as well, in his post-graduate phase, sandals, colorful hippie shirt. But the meditation is not going well. He's shaking his head at himself, frowning. Jim has approached closer, amused, looking down. Ray opening his eyes -- his POV -- Jim, slouched, jacket over his shoulder, sun behind him. Jim has crouched, digging his hand in the sand. As the grains spill out of his fist he has his eyes closed. Ray pantomimes chords in the keyboard sand. All of a sudden we're in RAY'S POV -- a mystical moment. Jim singing, no sound, then pure song, unadulterated by atmosphere. Jim stops, shrugs. Ray looks at him a long beat. Intense eyes, the manner of a man who knows what he wants and cannot be stopped. Jim laughs, loves Ray's ardor as they move along the ocean side. As they walk off, the two of them along the edge of the Pacific. A dog jumping for a frisbee. The music of MOONLIGHT DRIVE now riffs over the real song now. JIM straining to make it work, jumping around violent, echoes him back with his flamenco-blues guitar. JOHN on drums, reading Jim's moods, throws in the spontaneous and violent riffs that keep it savage. He literally tortures Jim's ears with his drums. And RAY, concentrated with his nodding head like a big flamingo over his keyboard, mixing it up, throwing curves, yet also -- and more delicately -- torturing Jim with the messianic organ sounds that shriek in his ears. There is something of Merlin in Ray -- the alchemist knowing how to play Jim. And JIM -- "that sneaky silent lithe flowing flexing animal" -- ready at last to share both his body and his soul with the world, to live out the words of the Indian prophet... to lead. Ray looks over up from his board, catches Robby with a 'what's this?' look... They go with it, improvising... Jim clutching the mike tighter, seeking solace in its arms; it all hangs in the air as if he doesn't have any idea what he's going to say next. Pamela sensing something is coming... the AUDIENCE... Jerry... the go-go dancers... FLASH -- A FATHER'S FACE, any face, older, any man... FLASH -- A MOTHER'S FACE, any face, older, a woman As the AUDIENCE gasps, shocked, stunned... As the guitar hits a high, horrid reverb, JIM in slightly SLOW MOTION suddenly tightens his backbone as if electrocuted and shoots violently backwards, hitting the floor like a puppet cut from his string -- we sense Jim himself has crossed a barrier now, gone into yet another stage of his performance, a stage from which he can never return. Like the gunfighter who has killed his first man. RAY sees it instantly where it's going, hits the organ! Robbie and John follow. the instruments EXPLODE all at once trying to bury Jim in The GHOST of the DEAD INDIAN is also looking at him. We are looking at JIM from its point of view -- a blur of light, some headdress, a sense of skins... music drops back, no lyrics... the voice is old, familiar, possible Spanish descent dialect or huararchi. The voice, the pretense, -- the glow too quickly fades -- leaving Jim so alone, not sure what he has heard, yet he knows he has heard, and he knows he has seen -- and once you have seen, it will never be the same again. His eyes. Camera pulling out from his eyes. There's something different tonight. Something in the air. His eyes are open, he's facing outward, gripping the mike for his life, hair falling in his face, dripping sweat, we sense all his soul concentrated in what he has to say. Cliques of GROUPIES have staked claims at the foot of the stage, eyes fucking him as he writhes, spreading his legs. Every twitch, every moment he sucks out the tension on the musical interludes generates a whip of a reaction in his audience. Nobody is moving in the club. The DANCERS are still, the GO GO GIRLS in their white plastic boots and dresses hang motionless in their gilded cages. Even the WAITRESSES have stopped, frozen with their trays, denying something is going to happen. PAMELA, DOROTHY... JERRY from the Fog, also the manager of this place, watches from the balcony, shaking his head, doesn't understand. Panning to two RECORD TYPES with him -- JAC HOLZMAN, distinguished six footer, suit, and PAUL ROTHCHILD, funky, pigtailed, ex-con, early 30s. The band has come together fully now. ROBBIE'S fingers sliding across the trembling strings, staring at the ceiling, wandering around the darkened portions of stage left, he feels Jim -- of a dying Indian on an Arizona highway -- then gone. A moment, only three, four beats. An optical illusion? Maybe. Or is it saying, 'now you are just a white man'... maybe not. As it drifts off in a cloud, into the vast audience's EYEBALL. He waits. INTERCUTS of the FACES in the crowd. Jim pulling his shirt off -- barechested -- waving it like a toreador in front of his leather crotch. The audience seems to be paying no attention to what he is doing or saying, which drives him to deeper rage. He saunters to the edge of the stage. Hisses at them. He clasps his crotch, leering at a cute LITTLE GIRL in the front row, shaking it at her. Her BOYFRIEND, pissed at Jim, runs for the stage. Jim unzips his leathers. He feigns opening his belt and exposing himself, flipping his shirt back and forth over the crotch in a mock striptease. A flock of TEENAGE GIRLS are sure they've seen it, hysterical. RAY starts playing BREAK ON THROUGH trying to keep things normal. JIM now out there in the arena in a CONGA LINE, doing his rain dance, hands on hips, the TEENAGERS forming a long snake behind him. The huge speaker columns teeter and fall. A corner of the STAGE now COLLAPSES from the weight, PEOPLE spilling on the floor, screams. The power console tips over next to DENSMORE. He bails. Manzarek and Krieger follow. The PROMOTER is yelling at SIDDONS about his insurance contract as the COPS and FBI AGENTS close in, looking for Jim. Who is out there leading his naked drunken FLOCK, hundreds of them in a phallic Pied Piper dance thru the darkened seaplane hanger. From BREAK ON THROUGH PART TWO: Ray watching from the corner of the his primal unmistakeable scream. The CLUB in shock. Tribal taboo broken in one instant. Jerry exploding off the balcony toward the stage... Pamela, extremely moved and impressed, and Dorothy... the go- go girls, as jaded as they come, are stunned tension... the groupies love it. Jim has jumped up now, dancing an Indian war dance around the mike. Jerry pinning Jim to the wall, Lost in the melee, RAY and JOHN springing Jim back from likely death JAC HOLZMAN pushing past to Ray. Pamela separating Jim visually from Jerry. Holzman pauses, a dramatic presence, six foot two, impeccably dressed, he knows the weight of his words. It hangs there. Impossible words. John and Robbie sharing looks. Strains of LIGHT MY FIRE cross the cut. Camera moving fast thru the control room, past the ENGINEER (BRUCE BOTNICK), taciturn, 20's, the PRODUCER (PAUL ROTHCHILD) in pig heaven, and the owner JAC HOLZMAN in his blue suit watching. Camera moving fast past a smiling PAM watching, out to the DOORS on the floor, jamming... on to JIM in the vocal booth, headphone to his ears. The song, now fully -- orchestrated, rolling on over the following MONTAGE: A staged 16mm. grainy shot of JIM and PAMELA, RAY and DOROTHY, JOHN, ROBBIE and their TWO NEW GIRLFRIENDS wandering thru the CROWD sharing the spirit. Pam and Jim fool around -- laughing -- tickling each other for the home movie camera shot by Ray... Pam is goofy, makes funny faces, teases him running a flower under his nose, thru his hair, then trips him. He chases her across the lawn. JIM swandives into the stoned crowd with the mike at the instrumental section, a colored spotlight flecking him, GIRLS kiss him. The guys want to be him, the girls want him -- and he knows

Where does Pam find Jim is dead?

In a bathtub while in Paris.

The GHOST of the DEAD INDIAN is also looking at him. We are looking at JIM from its point of view -- a blur of light, some headdress, a sense of skins... music drops back, no lyrics... the voice is old, familiar, possible Spanish descent dialect or huararchi. The voice, the pretense, -- the glow too quickly fades -- leaving Jim so alone, not sure what he has heard, yet he knows he has heard, and he knows he has seen -- and once you have seen, it will never be the same again. His eyes. Camera pulling out from his eyes. There's something different tonight. Something in the air. His eyes are open, he's facing outward, gripping the mike for his life, hair falling in his face, dripping sweat, we sense all his soul concentrated in what he has to say. Cliques of GROUPIES have staked claims at the foot of the stage, eyes fucking him as he writhes, spreading his legs. Every twitch, every moment he sucks out the tension on the musical interludes generates a whip of a reaction in his audience. Nobody is moving in the club. The DANCERS are still, the GO GO GIRLS in their white plastic boots and dresses hang motionless in their gilded cages. Even the WAITRESSES have stopped, frozen with their trays, denying something is going to happen. PAMELA, DOROTHY... JERRY from the Fog, also the manager of this place, watches from the balcony, shaking his head, doesn't understand. Panning to two RECORD TYPES with him -- JAC HOLZMAN, distinguished six footer, suit, and PAUL ROTHCHILD, funky, pigtailed, ex-con, early 30s. The band has come together fully now. ROBBIE'S fingers sliding across the trembling strings, staring at the ceiling, wandering around the darkened portions of stage left, he feels Jim -- now humming a song from the desert. The OTHERS join in his chant, the four rising and falling like a collective breath. Suddenly Jim breaks and rises out of the circle. Ray, Robbie, John, all looking at him. The same need. Pamela, the desperation of her eyes. He goes, his boots in the sand. Pamela calling from another dune, far away. His POV -- of her, receding. She screams for him. He's in pain. Cannot help her. A BIRD of prey in the sky. Jim moving across a lunar landscape. SPECIAL EFFECT: The sun is black like night or else white in a black sky. Voices in the distance. "Jim, where are you going?" A mother's voice, a father's voice. At the overturned truck, the bodies in the road... at the older Indian looking at him... finally at the dying Indian... his eyes. JIM bounds towards the crevice. Jim, thunderstruck, gaping. A gallery of ancient INDIAN PETROGLYPHS surround him on all sides. Curious, oblong figures, buffalo, sacred deer and bear, creatures of the hunt; hunters and their weapons, rain clouds, masked deities proclaiming the answers to the Mysteries, the story of Creation. Camera weaving up to see one of the faces of the deities -- staring at him from the wall -- an eagle's face... The sound of a rattle -- "shichishichi" -- he realizes he's being watched. By what? He whips his eyes everywhere. A large LIZARD perches on a boulder assesses him calmly, tatters of a former skin clinging to its throat, spits a forked tongue and drills its black pearly eyes into his skull... Now the sound of the Bull-Roarer, whipping the air, announcing the appearance of the shaman. Jim's struck with an overwhelming sense of... awe... ancient mysteries. He turns. The lizard is looking at him. his primal unmistakeable scream. The CLUB in shock. Tribal taboo broken in one instant. Jerry exploding off the balcony toward the stage... Pamela, extremely moved and impressed, and Dorothy... the go- go girls, as jaded as they come, are stunned tension... the groupies love it. Jim has jumped up now, dancing an Indian war dance around the mike. Jerry pinning Jim to the wall, Lost in the melee, RAY and JOHN springing Jim back from likely death JAC HOLZMAN pushing past to Ray. Pamela separating Jim visually from Jerry. Holzman pauses, a dramatic presence, six foot two, impeccably dressed, he knows the weight of his words. It hangs there. Impossible words. John and Robbie sharing looks. Strains of LIGHT MY FIRE cross the cut. Camera moving fast thru the control room, past the ENGINEER (BRUCE BOTNICK), taciturn, 20's, the PRODUCER (PAUL ROTHCHILD) in pig heaven, and the owner JAC HOLZMAN in his blue suit watching. Camera moving fast past a smiling PAM watching, out to the DOORS on the floor, jamming... on to JIM in the vocal booth, headphone to his ears. The song, now fully -- orchestrated, rolling on over the following MONTAGE: A staged 16mm. grainy shot of JIM and PAMELA, RAY and DOROTHY, JOHN, ROBBIE and their TWO NEW GIRLFRIENDS wandering thru the CROWD sharing the spirit. Pam and Jim fool around -- laughing -- tickling each other for the home movie camera shot by Ray... Pam is goofy, makes funny faces, teases him running a flower under his nose, thru his hair, then trips him. He chases her across the lawn. JIM swandives into the stoned crowd with the mike at the instrumental section, a colored spotlight flecking him, GIRLS kiss him. The guys want to be him, the girls want him -- and he knows of a dying Indian on an Arizona highway -- then gone. A moment, only three, four beats. An optical illusion? Maybe. Or is it saying, 'now you are just a white man'... maybe not. As it drifts off in a cloud, into the vast audience's EYEBALL. He waits. INTERCUTS of the FACES in the crowd. Jim pulling his shirt off -- barechested -- waving it like a toreador in front of his leather crotch. The audience seems to be paying no attention to what he is doing or saying, which drives him to deeper rage. He saunters to the edge of the stage. Hisses at them. He clasps his crotch, leering at a cute LITTLE GIRL in the front row, shaking it at her. Her BOYFRIEND, pissed at Jim, runs for the stage. Jim unzips his leathers. He feigns opening his belt and exposing himself, flipping his shirt back and forth over the crotch in a mock striptease. A flock of TEENAGE GIRLS are sure they've seen it, hysterical. RAY starts playing BREAK ON THROUGH trying to keep things normal. JIM now out there in the arena in a CONGA LINE, doing his rain dance, hands on hips, the TEENAGERS forming a long snake behind him. The huge speaker columns teeter and fall. A corner of the STAGE now COLLAPSES from the weight, PEOPLE spilling on the floor, screams. The power console tips over next to DENSMORE. He bails. Manzarek and Krieger follow. The PROMOTER is yelling at SIDDONS about his insurance contract as the COPS and FBI AGENTS close in, looking for Jim. Who is out there leading his naked drunken FLOCK, hundreds of them in a phallic Pied Piper dance thru the darkened seaplane hanger. From BREAK ON THROUGH PART TWO: Ray watching from the corner of the echoes him back with his flamenco-blues guitar. JOHN on drums, reading Jim's moods, throws in the spontaneous and violent riffs that keep it savage. He literally tortures Jim's ears with his drums. And RAY, concentrated with his nodding head like a big flamingo over his keyboard, mixing it up, throwing curves, yet also -- and more delicately -- torturing Jim with the messianic organ sounds that shriek in his ears. There is something of Merlin in Ray -- the alchemist knowing how to play Jim. And JIM -- "that sneaky silent lithe flowing flexing animal" -- ready at last to share both his body and his soul with the world, to live out the words of the Indian prophet... to lead. Ray looks over up from his board, catches Robby with a 'what's this?' look... They go with it, improvising... Jim clutching the mike tighter, seeking solace in its arms; it all hangs in the air as if he doesn't have any idea what he's going to say next. Pamela sensing something is coming... the AUDIENCE... Jerry... the go-go dancers... FLASH -- A FATHER'S FACE, any face, older, any man... FLASH -- A MOTHER'S FACE, any face, older, a woman As the AUDIENCE gasps, shocked, stunned... As the guitar hits a high, horrid reverb, JIM in slightly SLOW MOTION suddenly tightens his backbone as if electrocuted and shoots violently backwards, hitting the floor like a puppet cut from his string -- we sense Jim himself has crossed a barrier now, gone into yet another stage of his performance, a stage from which he can never return. Like the gunfighter who has killed his first man. RAY sees it instantly where it's going, hits the organ! Robbie and John follow. the instruments EXPLODE all at once trying to bury Jim in

What was the alleged cause of Jim's death?

His death was attributed to heart failure.

on as the last absurdist images flicker off. Hissing and a big Bronx cheer summarize the feelings of the 100 odd STUDENTS crammed into a bunker-like theater. A youngish INSTRUCTOR stirs to the front row from a row of upset FACULTY. Hands shooting up to criticize. TRICK, BONES and JACK, three friends sitting next to Jim, shoot their hands up. A cacophony of voices, critics, emotions blend out over Jim's quiet eyes. He slows, a dramatic young lion pose, surveying the girls. The cronies wait, anticipating something inescapably evil to escape his lips. Camera moving to reveal JOHN DENSMORE wiry, solid on the drums... moving on to ROBBIE KRIEGER, wispy, ethereal looking, the youngest, flamenco-type moves on his early electric guitar. Also a HARMONICA PLAYER and a BASE. They all seem slightly embarrassed by either the cheap sound system feedback or Ray's warbling, but the crowd couldn't care less -- a German beerhall, they want noise and sex. JIM and his GANG, beers in hand, mouth back the words, beers everywhere shoved to the smokey ceiling, everyone on their feet, nuts with spring fever. Jim eyeing the GIRL next to him. The FOOTBALL TEAM TYPES edge over nearby, one of them picking out Jim with a glare. She looks puzzled by the suggestion. He evades the football man's grasp, elusive physicality. He hops over tables, heading for the stage. Other KIDS are up on the stage dancing, but Jim goes right up alongside RAY, shaking his hips like Elvis. Ray giving him the mike. Improv time. They love it. The place going wild. The girl with the football player wanting him. Jim slides her upstairs' door open, crawls in next to her bed. She's asleep with her boyfriend. He touches her toe. She awakes, startled. There's a crash. They turn The GHOST of the DEAD INDIAN is also looking at him. We are looking at JIM from its point of view -- a blur of light, some headdress, a sense of skins... music drops back, no lyrics... the voice is old, familiar, possible Spanish descent dialect or huararchi. The voice, the pretense, -- the glow too quickly fades -- leaving Jim so alone, not sure what he has heard, yet he knows he has heard, and he knows he has seen -- and once you have seen, it will never be the same again. His eyes. Camera pulling out from his eyes. There's something different tonight. Something in the air. His eyes are open, he's facing outward, gripping the mike for his life, hair falling in his face, dripping sweat, we sense all his soul concentrated in what he has to say. Cliques of GROUPIES have staked claims at the foot of the stage, eyes fucking him as he writhes, spreading his legs. Every twitch, every moment he sucks out the tension on the musical interludes generates a whip of a reaction in his audience. Nobody is moving in the club. The DANCERS are still, the GO GO GIRLS in their white plastic boots and dresses hang motionless in their gilded cages. Even the WAITRESSES have stopped, frozen with their trays, denying something is going to happen. PAMELA, DOROTHY... JERRY from the Fog, also the manager of this place, watches from the balcony, shaking his head, doesn't understand. Panning to two RECORD TYPES with him -- JAC HOLZMAN, distinguished six footer, suit, and PAUL ROTHCHILD, funky, pigtailed, ex-con, early 30s. The band has come together fully now. ROBBIE'S fingers sliding across the trembling strings, staring at the ceiling, wandering around the darkened portions of stage left, he feels Jim -- bristling. A COYOTE lurks under the sickly light of a streetlamp, pulling its head from an overstuffed garbage can, looking back at them. She breaks into sobs, seeking his arms. He hugs her. In the notebooks, at intervals during the conversation, we see powerful sketches colored in visionary hallucinogenic William Blake mode with writing between. Books are everywhere -- panning Kerouac, Ginsberg, Nietzsche, Rimbaud, Mailer, Artaud, mythological works, shamanistic books, a library of stolen ideas. Pam shivers, a strange thought. He runs his fingers thru her hair, kissing her gently. The panties coming off. Rousseau dangling from the Venice moon. He moves a little over excited, nervous, more awkward than we might expect. RAY MANZAREK is meditating in yoga posture, longer hair as well, in his post-graduate phase, sandals, colorful hippie shirt. But the meditation is not going well. He's shaking his head at himself, frowning. Jim has approached closer, amused, looking down. Ray opening his eyes -- his POV -- Jim, slouched, jacket over his shoulder, sun behind him. Jim has crouched, digging his hand in the sand. As the grains spill out of his fist he has his eyes closed. Ray pantomimes chords in the keyboard sand. All of a sudden we're in RAY'S POV -- a mystical moment. Jim singing, no sound, then pure song, unadulterated by atmosphere. Jim stops, shrugs. Ray looks at him a long beat. Intense eyes, the manner of a man who knows what he wants and cannot be stopped. Jim laughs, loves Ray's ardor as they move along the ocean side. As they walk off, the two of them along the edge of the Pacific. A dog jumping for a frisbee. The music of MOONLIGHT DRIVE now riffs over the real song now. JIM straining to make it work, jumping around violent, of a dying Indian on an Arizona highway -- then gone. A moment, only three, four beats. An optical illusion? Maybe. Or is it saying, 'now you are just a white man'... maybe not. As it drifts off in a cloud, into the vast audience's EYEBALL. He waits. INTERCUTS of the FACES in the crowd. Jim pulling his shirt off -- barechested -- waving it like a toreador in front of his leather crotch. The audience seems to be paying no attention to what he is doing or saying, which drives him to deeper rage. He saunters to the edge of the stage. Hisses at them. He clasps his crotch, leering at a cute LITTLE GIRL in the front row, shaking it at her. Her BOYFRIEND, pissed at Jim, runs for the stage. Jim unzips his leathers. He feigns opening his belt and exposing himself, flipping his shirt back and forth over the crotch in a mock striptease. A flock of TEENAGE GIRLS are sure they've seen it, hysterical. RAY starts playing BREAK ON THROUGH trying to keep things normal. JIM now out there in the arena in a CONGA LINE, doing his rain dance, hands on hips, the TEENAGERS forming a long snake behind him. The huge speaker columns teeter and fall. A corner of the STAGE now COLLAPSES from the weight, PEOPLE spilling on the floor, screams. The power console tips over next to DENSMORE. He bails. Manzarek and Krieger follow. The PROMOTER is yelling at SIDDONS about his insurance contract as the COPS and FBI AGENTS close in, looking for Jim. Who is out there leading his naked drunken FLOCK, hundreds of them in a phallic Pied Piper dance thru the darkened seaplane hanger. From BREAK ON THROUGH PART TWO: Ray watching from the corner of the echoes him back with his flamenco-blues guitar. JOHN on drums, reading Jim's moods, throws in the spontaneous and violent riffs that keep it savage. He literally tortures Jim's ears with his drums. And RAY, concentrated with his nodding head like a big flamingo over his keyboard, mixing it up, throwing curves, yet also -- and more delicately -- torturing Jim with the messianic organ sounds that shriek in his ears. There is something of Merlin in Ray -- the alchemist knowing how to play Jim. And JIM -- "that sneaky silent lithe flowing flexing animal" -- ready at last to share both his body and his soul with the world, to live out the words of the Indian prophet... to lead. Ray looks over up from his board, catches Robby with a 'what's this?' look... They go with it, improvising... Jim clutching the mike tighter, seeking solace in its arms; it all hangs in the air as if he doesn't have any idea what he's going to say next. Pamela sensing something is coming... the AUDIENCE... Jerry... the go-go dancers... FLASH -- A FATHER'S FACE, any face, older, any man... FLASH -- A MOTHER'S FACE, any face, older, a woman As the AUDIENCE gasps, shocked, stunned... As the guitar hits a high, horrid reverb, JIM in slightly SLOW MOTION suddenly tightens his backbone as if electrocuted and shoots violently backwards, hitting the floor like a puppet cut from his string -- we sense Jim himself has crossed a barrier now, gone into yet another stage of his performance, a stage from which he can never return. Like the gunfighter who has killed his first man. RAY sees it instantly where it's going, hits the organ! Robbie and John follow. the instruments EXPLODE all at once trying to bury Jim in

Where does Jim meet eh eventual members of their band?

While he was attending UCLA studying in film school.

in his mustang -- making a shakey, screeching curve at the bend of the beach. And he's gone. An ominous ROAR of an AIRPLANE above RAY. -- flying away. The ENGINEER, exhausted, doesn't feel anything funny. The poets face brightens. A small but ever-so-sweet smile of triumph hikes up the corners of his mouth. He stands, sways, than moves out of view. The empty bottle of whiskey, its sands run out, is left behind. As we FADE OUT, a hardy, mischievous Morrison laugh and a ripple of sensuous MUSIC carry us into the lilting, lamenting strains of AN AMERICAN PRAYER -- THE END without lyrics for now as we cut to: Looks at the time. Somewhere near dawn. The sounds of a bath being drawn. Nightmare or sleep? She tries to fade back to sleep but the MUSIC and the WHISPERING prod her, pull her awake... His face. At peace, as she sobs, the MUSIC cresting to Jim's lyrics. The MUSIC rolling up on: The AUDIENCE is out there somewhere in the dark -- we sense they too have become ghosts, as all of us will one day. The MUSIC continuing up to roll from AMERICAN PRAYER -- THE END -- snatches we annotate. Camera closing past the DOORS to JIM alone, circling the mike with his dance -- the INDIAN GHOSTMAN jigging, shaman- like, off to the side -- now levitating above the stage, all crazy, gawky dancing. on as the last absurdist images flicker off. Hissing and a big Bronx cheer summarize the feelings of the 100 odd STUDENTS crammed into a bunker-like theater. A youngish INSTRUCTOR stirs to the front row from a row of upset FACULTY. Hands shooting up to criticize. TRICK, BONES and JACK, three friends sitting next to Jim, shoot their hands up. A cacophony of voices, critics, emotions blend out over Jim's quiet eyes. He slows, a dramatic young lion pose, surveying the girls. The cronies wait, anticipating something inescapably evil to escape his lips. Camera moving to reveal JOHN DENSMORE wiry, solid on the drums... moving on to ROBBIE KRIEGER, wispy, ethereal looking, the youngest, flamenco-type moves on his early electric guitar. Also a HARMONICA PLAYER and a BASE. They all seem slightly embarrassed by either the cheap sound system feedback or Ray's warbling, but the crowd couldn't care less -- a German beerhall, they want noise and sex. JIM and his GANG, beers in hand, mouth back the words, beers everywhere shoved to the smokey ceiling, everyone on their feet, nuts with spring fever. Jim eyeing the GIRL next to him. The FOOTBALL TEAM TYPES edge over nearby, one of them picking out Jim with a glare. She looks puzzled by the suggestion. He evades the football man's grasp, elusive physicality. He hops over tables, heading for the stage. Other KIDS are up on the stage dancing, but Jim goes right up alongside RAY, shaking his hips like Elvis. Ray giving him the mike. Improv time. They love it. The place going wild. The girl with the football player wanting him. Jim slides her upstairs' door open, crawls in next to her bed. She's asleep with her boyfriend. He touches her toe. She awakes, startled. There's a crash. They turn each other. If Hieronymus Bosch had painted a rock concert, this would be it. Meanwhile, JOHN arguing with RAY and JIM who sways, drunk. The FBI agents get lost in the background. As JIM brings up a tiny vial with a lubricating head on it, holds it to Robbie's lips playfully. They're in the shadows. Something so sincere in Jim's eyes. Robbie takes the fatal lick. Jim smiles manically as the NUREMBERG SOUNDS of the CROWD drown them out. JIM spreading his arms like Icarus set to fly. The ROARS redouble, their FEET stomping out: COPS everywhere looking as... He lights it. The CROWD going nuts as the DOORS go into the ominous introductory strains of FIVE TO ONE trying to get the onus off Jim and the show on the road. The Audience knows the song, go into a primal FOOT STOMP with it. Bras are thrown on stage. Kids writhe madly in the primal Doors dance. People with SPARKLERS running through the hangar. CAMERA FLASHBULBS popping throughout the show... get Jim on film while you can. Jim, drunk, high, smoking the jay, won't go into the lyrics right off, forcing the Doors to circle the beat again. He jerks his hand back from the mike as if it were a hot wire. The Crowd yelling something. An INSANE TEENAGER stands on the railing of a balcony above the auditorium, poised to swan dive some 18 feet into the crowd. Which he now does, arms held out like wings. The Crowd yells, parting to allow his bulk to smack the floor. Pause. Cops rushing to the spot. The KID suddenly stands up, unhurt, with a stoned out look on his face. Then splits at a full run thru the crowd chased by the perplexed Cops. Everybody surging back towards echoes him back with his flamenco-blues guitar. JOHN on drums, reading Jim's moods, throws in the spontaneous and violent riffs that keep it savage. He literally tortures Jim's ears with his drums. And RAY, concentrated with his nodding head like a big flamingo over his keyboard, mixing it up, throwing curves, yet also -- and more delicately -- torturing Jim with the messianic organ sounds that shriek in his ears. There is something of Merlin in Ray -- the alchemist knowing how to play Jim. And JIM -- "that sneaky silent lithe flowing flexing animal" -- ready at last to share both his body and his soul with the world, to live out the words of the Indian prophet... to lead. Ray looks over up from his board, catches Robby with a 'what's this?' look... They go with it, improvising... Jim clutching the mike tighter, seeking solace in its arms; it all hangs in the air as if he doesn't have any idea what he's going to say next. Pamela sensing something is coming... the AUDIENCE... Jerry... the go-go dancers... FLASH -- A FATHER'S FACE, any face, older, any man... FLASH -- A MOTHER'S FACE, any face, older, a woman As the AUDIENCE gasps, shocked, stunned... As the guitar hits a high, horrid reverb, JIM in slightly SLOW MOTION suddenly tightens his backbone as if electrocuted and shoots violently backwards, hitting the floor like a puppet cut from his string -- we sense Jim himself has crossed a barrier now, gone into yet another stage of his performance, a stage from which he can never return. Like the gunfighter who has killed his first man. RAY sees it instantly where it's going, hits the organ! Robbie and John follow. the instruments EXPLODE all at once trying to bury Jim in The GHOST of the DEAD INDIAN is also looking at him. We are looking at JIM from its point of view -- a blur of light, some headdress, a sense of skins... music drops back, no lyrics... the voice is old, familiar, possible Spanish descent dialect or huararchi. The voice, the pretense, -- the glow too quickly fades -- leaving Jim so alone, not sure what he has heard, yet he knows he has heard, and he knows he has seen -- and once you have seen, it will never be the same again. His eyes. Camera pulling out from his eyes. There's something different tonight. Something in the air. His eyes are open, he's facing outward, gripping the mike for his life, hair falling in his face, dripping sweat, we sense all his soul concentrated in what he has to say. Cliques of GROUPIES have staked claims at the foot of the stage, eyes fucking him as he writhes, spreading his legs. Every twitch, every moment he sucks out the tension on the musical interludes generates a whip of a reaction in his audience. Nobody is moving in the club. The DANCERS are still, the GO GO GIRLS in their white plastic boots and dresses hang motionless in their gilded cages. Even the WAITRESSES have stopped, frozen with their trays, denying something is going to happen. PAMELA, DOROTHY... JERRY from the Fog, also the manager of this place, watches from the balcony, shaking his head, doesn't understand. Panning to two RECORD TYPES with him -- JAC HOLZMAN, distinguished six footer, suit, and PAUL ROTHCHILD, funky, pigtailed, ex-con, early 30s. The band has come together fully now. ROBBIE'S fingers sliding across the trembling strings, staring at the ceiling, wandering around the darkened portions of stage left, he feels Jim --

Whats does Jim do when he attends a party thrown by his bandmates for a final time?

He wishes them luck and gives them a copy of An American Prayer.

ultimate reality, that unknowable essence of essences called God. The religions brought to mankind by a succession of spiritual luminaries have been the primary link between humanity and that ultimate reality, and have galvanized and refined mankind’s capacity to achieve spiritual success together with social progress. No serious attempt to set human affairs aright, to achieve world peace, can ignore religion. Man’s perception and practice of it are largely the stuff of history. An eminent historian described religion as a “faculty of human nature”. That the perversion of this faculty has contributed to much of the confusion in society and the conflicts in and between individuals can hardly be denied. But neither can any fair-minded observer discount the preponderating influence exerted by religion on the vital expressions of civilization. Furthermore, its indispensability to social order has repeatedly been demonstrated by its direct effect on laws and morality. Writing of religion as a social force, Bahá’u’lláh said: “Religion is the greatest of all means for the establishment of order in the world and for the peaceful contentment of all that dwell therein.” Referring to the eclipse or corruption of religion, he wrote: “Should the lamp of religion be obscured, chaos and confusion will ensue, and the lights of fairness, of justice, of tranquillity and peace cease to shine.” In an enumeration of such consequences the Bahá’í writings point out that the “perversion of human nature, the degradation of human conduct, the corruption and dissolution of human institutions, reveal themselves, under such circumstances, in their worst and most revolting aspects. Human character is debased, confidence is shaken, the nerves of discipline are relaxed, the voice of human conscience is stilled, the sense of decency and shame is obscured, conceptions of duty, of solidarity, of reciprocity and loyalty are distorted, and the very of the earth must needs attend it, and, participating in its deliberations, must consider such ways and means as will lay the foundations of the world’s Great Peace amongst men.” The courage, the resolution, the pure motive, the selfless love of one people for another—all the spiritual and moral qualities required for effecting this momentous step towards peace are focused on the will to act. And it is towards arousing the necessary volition that earnest consideration must be given to the reality of man, namely, his thought. To understand the relevance of this potent reality is also to appreciate the social necessity of actualizing its unique value through candid, dispassionate and cordial consultation, and of acting upon the results of this process. Bahá’u’lláh insistently drew attention to the virtues and indispensability of consultation for ordering human affairs. He said: “Consultation bestows greater awareness and transmutes conjecture into certitude. It is a shining light which, in a dark world, leads the way and guides. For everything there is and will continue to be a station of perfection and maturity. The maturity of the gift of understanding is made manifest through consultation.” The very attempt to achieve peace through the consultative action he proposed can release such a salutary spirit among the peoples of the earth that no power could resist the final, triumphal outcome. Concerning the proceedings for this world gathering, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, the son of Bahá’u’lláh and authorized interpreter of his teachings, offered these insights: “They must make the Cause of Peace the object of general consultation, and seek by every means in their power to establish a Union of the nations of the world. They must conclude a binding treaty and establish a covenant, the provisions of which shall be sound, inviolable and definite. They must proclaim it to all and practical approaches. A fresh look at the problem is required, entailing consultation with experts from a wide spectrum of disciplines, devoid of economic and ideological polemics, and involving the people directly affected in the decisions that must urgently be made. It is an issue that is bound up not only with the necessity for eliminating extremes of wealth and poverty but also with those spiritual verities the understanding of which can produce a new universal attitude. Fostering such an attitude is itself a major part of the solution. Unbridled nationalism, as distinguished from a sane and legitimate patriotism, must give way to a wider loyalty, to the love of humanity as a whole. Bahá’u’lláh’s statement is: “The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens.” The concept of world citizenship is a direct result of the contraction of the world into a single neighbourhood through scientific advances and of the indisputable interdependence of nations. Love of all the world’s peoples does not exclude love of one’s country. The advantage of the part in a world society is best served by promoting the advantage of the whole. Current international activities in various fields which nurture mutual affection and a sense of solidarity among peoples need greatly to be increased. Religious strife, throughout history, has been the cause of innumerable wars and conflicts, a major blight to progress, and is increasingly abhorrent to the people of all faiths and no faith. Followers of all religions must be willing to face the basic questions which this strife raises, and to arrive at clear answers. How are the differences between them to be resolved, both in theory and in practice? The challenge facing the religious leaders of mankind is to contemplate, with hearts filled with the spirit of compassion and a desire divine guidance in human history. Its existence is yet another convincing proof of the practicality of its Founder’s vision of a united world, another evidence that humanity can live as one global society, equal to whatever challenges its coming of age may entail. If the Bahá’í experience can contribute in whatever measure to reinforcing hope in the unity of the human race, we are happy to offer it as a model for study. In contemplating the supreme importance of the task now challenging the entire world, we bow our heads in humility before the awesome majesty of the divine Creator, Who out of His infinite love has created all humanity from the same stock; exalted the gem-like reality of man; honoured it with intellect and wisdom, nobility and immortality; and conferred upon man the “unique distinction and capacity to know Him and to love Him”, a capacity that “must needs be regarded as the generating impulse and the primary purpose underlying the whole of creation.” We hold firmly the conviction that all human beings have been created “to carry forward an ever-advancing civilization”; that “to act like the beasts of the field is unworthy of man”; that the virtues that befit human dignity are trustworthiness, forbearance, mercy, compassion and loving-kindness towards all peoples. We reaffirm the belief that the “potentialities inherent in the station of man, the full measure of his destiny on earth, the innate excellence of his reality, must all be manifested in this promised Day of God.” These are the motivations for our unshakeable faith that unity and peace are the attainable goal towards which humanity is striving. At this writing, the expectant voices of Bahá’ís can be heard despite the persecution they still endure in the land in which their Faith was born. By their example The Promise of World Peace by Universal House of Justice Edition 1, (September 2006) 2. The Content may not be modified or altered in any way except to change the font or appearance; 3. The Content must be used solely for a non-commercial purpose. For permission to publish, transmit, display or otherwise use the Content for any commercial purpose, please contact us (http://reference.bahai.org/en/contact.html). Baha’i Terms of Use I II III IV To the Peoples of the World: The Great Peace towards which people of good will throughout the centuries have inclined their hearts, of which seers and poets for countless generations have expressed their vision, and for which from age to age the sacred scriptures of mankind have constantly held the promise, is now at long last within the reach of the nations. For the first time in history it is possible for everyone to view the entire planet, with all its myriad diversified peoples, in one perspective. World peace is not only possible but inevitable. It is the next stage in the evolution of this planet—in the words of one great thinker, “the planetization of mankind”. Whether peace is to be reached only after unimaginable horrors precipitated by humanity’s stubborn clinging to old patterns of behaviour, or is to be embraced now by an act of consultative will, is the choice before all who inhabit the earth. At this critical juncture when the intractable problems confronting nations have been fused into one common concern for the whole world, failure to stem the tide of conflict and disorder would be unconscionably irresponsible. Among the favourable signs are the steadily growing strength of the steps towards world order taken initially near the beginning of this century in the creation of the League of Nations, succeeded by the more broadly based United

What is the name of the document discussed in this article?

The promise of world peace

ultimate reality, that unknowable essence of essences called God. The religions brought to mankind by a succession of spiritual luminaries have been the primary link between humanity and that ultimate reality, and have galvanized and refined mankind’s capacity to achieve spiritual success together with social progress. No serious attempt to set human affairs aright, to achieve world peace, can ignore religion. Man’s perception and practice of it are largely the stuff of history. An eminent historian described religion as a “faculty of human nature”. That the perversion of this faculty has contributed to much of the confusion in society and the conflicts in and between individuals can hardly be denied. But neither can any fair-minded observer discount the preponderating influence exerted by religion on the vital expressions of civilization. Furthermore, its indispensability to social order has repeatedly been demonstrated by its direct effect on laws and morality. Writing of religion as a social force, Bahá’u’lláh said: “Religion is the greatest of all means for the establishment of order in the world and for the peaceful contentment of all that dwell therein.” Referring to the eclipse or corruption of religion, he wrote: “Should the lamp of religion be obscured, chaos and confusion will ensue, and the lights of fairness, of justice, of tranquillity and peace cease to shine.” In an enumeration of such consequences the Bahá’í writings point out that the “perversion of human nature, the degradation of human conduct, the corruption and dissolution of human institutions, reveal themselves, under such circumstances, in their worst and most revolting aspects. Human character is debased, confidence is shaken, the nerves of discipline are relaxed, the voice of human conscience is stilled, the sense of decency and shame is obscured, conceptions of duty, of solidarity, of reciprocity and loyalty are distorted, and the very and practical approaches. A fresh look at the problem is required, entailing consultation with experts from a wide spectrum of disciplines, devoid of economic and ideological polemics, and involving the people directly affected in the decisions that must urgently be made. It is an issue that is bound up not only with the necessity for eliminating extremes of wealth and poverty but also with those spiritual verities the understanding of which can produce a new universal attitude. Fostering such an attitude is itself a major part of the solution. Unbridled nationalism, as distinguished from a sane and legitimate patriotism, must give way to a wider loyalty, to the love of humanity as a whole. Bahá’u’lláh’s statement is: “The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens.” The concept of world citizenship is a direct result of the contraction of the world into a single neighbourhood through scientific advances and of the indisputable interdependence of nations. Love of all the world’s peoples does not exclude love of one’s country. The advantage of the part in a world society is best served by promoting the advantage of the whole. Current international activities in various fields which nurture mutual affection and a sense of solidarity among peoples need greatly to be increased. Religious strife, throughout history, has been the cause of innumerable wars and conflicts, a major blight to progress, and is increasingly abhorrent to the people of all faiths and no faith. Followers of all religions must be willing to face the basic questions which this strife raises, and to arrive at clear answers. How are the differences between them to be resolved, both in theory and in practice? The challenge facing the religious leaders of mankind is to contemplate, with hearts filled with the spirit of compassion and a desire of the earth must needs attend it, and, participating in its deliberations, must consider such ways and means as will lay the foundations of the world’s Great Peace amongst men.” The courage, the resolution, the pure motive, the selfless love of one people for another—all the spiritual and moral qualities required for effecting this momentous step towards peace are focused on the will to act. And it is towards arousing the necessary volition that earnest consideration must be given to the reality of man, namely, his thought. To understand the relevance of this potent reality is also to appreciate the social necessity of actualizing its unique value through candid, dispassionate and cordial consultation, and of acting upon the results of this process. Bahá’u’lláh insistently drew attention to the virtues and indispensability of consultation for ordering human affairs. He said: “Consultation bestows greater awareness and transmutes conjecture into certitude. It is a shining light which, in a dark world, leads the way and guides. For everything there is and will continue to be a station of perfection and maturity. The maturity of the gift of understanding is made manifest through consultation.” The very attempt to achieve peace through the consultative action he proposed can release such a salutary spirit among the peoples of the earth that no power could resist the final, triumphal outcome. Concerning the proceedings for this world gathering, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, the son of Bahá’u’lláh and authorized interpreter of his teachings, offered these insights: “They must make the Cause of Peace the object of general consultation, and seek by every means in their power to establish a Union of the nations of the world. They must conclude a binding treaty and establish a covenant, the provisions of which shall be sound, inviolable and definite. They must proclaim it to all world in which harmony and co-operation will prevail. World order can be founded only on an unshakeable consciousness of the oneness of mankind, a spiritual truth which all the human sciences confirm. Anthropology, physiology, psychology, recognize only one human species, albeit infinitely varied in the secondary aspects of life. Recognition of this truth requires abandonment of prejudice—prejudice of every kind—race, class, colour, creed, nation, sex, degree of material civilization, everything which enables people to consider themselves superior to others. Acceptance of the oneness of mankind is the first fundamental prerequisite for reorganization and administration of the world as one country, the home of humankind. Universal acceptance of this spiritual principle is essential to any successful attempt to establish world peace. It should therefore be universally proclaimed, taught in schools, and constantly asserted in every nation as preparation for the organic change in the structure of society which it implies. In the Bahá’í view, recognition of the oneness of mankind “calls for no less than the reconstruction and the demilitarization of the whole civilized world—a world organically unified in all the essential aspects of its life, its political machinery, its spiritual aspiration, its trade and finance, its script and language, and yet infinite in the diversity of the national characteristics of its federated units.” Elaborating the implications of this pivotal principle, Shoghi Effendi, the Guardian of the Bahá’í Faith, commented in 1931 that: “Far from aiming at the subversion of the existing foundations of society, it seeks to broaden its basis, to remold its institutions in a manner consonant with the needs of an ever-changing world. It can conflict with no legitimate allegiances, nor can it undermine essential loyalties. Its purpose is neither to stifle the flame of a sane and intelligent patriotism in men’s hearts, nor to abolish the system of steadfast hope, they bear witness to the belief that the imminent realization of this age-old dream of peace is now, by virtue of the transforming effects of Bahá’u’lláh’s revelation, invested with the force of divine authority. Thus we convey to you not only a vision in words: we summon the power of deeds of faith and sacrifice; we convey the anxious plea of our co-religionists everywhere for peace and unity. We join with all who are the victims of aggression, all who yearn for an end to conflict and contention, all whose devotion to principles of peace and world order promotes the ennobling purposes for which humanity was called into being by an all-loving Creator. In the earnestness of our desire to impart to you the fervour of our hope and the depth of our confidence, we cite the emphatic promise of Bahá’u’lláh: “These fruitless strifes, these ruinous wars shall pass away, and the ‘Most Great Peace’ shall come.”

What does the Universal House of Justice say is possible for the first time in human history?

World Peace

ultimate reality, that unknowable essence of essences called God. The religions brought to mankind by a succession of spiritual luminaries have been the primary link between humanity and that ultimate reality, and have galvanized and refined mankind’s capacity to achieve spiritual success together with social progress. No serious attempt to set human affairs aright, to achieve world peace, can ignore religion. Man’s perception and practice of it are largely the stuff of history. An eminent historian described religion as a “faculty of human nature”. That the perversion of this faculty has contributed to much of the confusion in society and the conflicts in and between individuals can hardly be denied. But neither can any fair-minded observer discount the preponderating influence exerted by religion on the vital expressions of civilization. Furthermore, its indispensability to social order has repeatedly been demonstrated by its direct effect on laws and morality. Writing of religion as a social force, Bahá’u’lláh said: “Religion is the greatest of all means for the establishment of order in the world and for the peaceful contentment of all that dwell therein.” Referring to the eclipse or corruption of religion, he wrote: “Should the lamp of religion be obscured, chaos and confusion will ensue, and the lights of fairness, of justice, of tranquillity and peace cease to shine.” In an enumeration of such consequences the Bahá’í writings point out that the “perversion of human nature, the degradation of human conduct, the corruption and dissolution of human institutions, reveal themselves, under such circumstances, in their worst and most revolting aspects. Human character is debased, confidence is shaken, the nerves of discipline are relaxed, the voice of human conscience is stilled, the sense of decency and shame is obscured, conceptions of duty, of solidarity, of reciprocity and loyalty are distorted, and the very and practical approaches. A fresh look at the problem is required, entailing consultation with experts from a wide spectrum of disciplines, devoid of economic and ideological polemics, and involving the people directly affected in the decisions that must urgently be made. It is an issue that is bound up not only with the necessity for eliminating extremes of wealth and poverty but also with those spiritual verities the understanding of which can produce a new universal attitude. Fostering such an attitude is itself a major part of the solution. Unbridled nationalism, as distinguished from a sane and legitimate patriotism, must give way to a wider loyalty, to the love of humanity as a whole. Bahá’u’lláh’s statement is: “The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens.” The concept of world citizenship is a direct result of the contraction of the world into a single neighbourhood through scientific advances and of the indisputable interdependence of nations. Love of all the world’s peoples does not exclude love of one’s country. The advantage of the part in a world society is best served by promoting the advantage of the whole. Current international activities in various fields which nurture mutual affection and a sense of solidarity among peoples need greatly to be increased. Religious strife, throughout history, has been the cause of innumerable wars and conflicts, a major blight to progress, and is increasingly abhorrent to the people of all faiths and no faith. Followers of all religions must be willing to face the basic questions which this strife raises, and to arrive at clear answers. How are the differences between them to be resolved, both in theory and in practice? The challenge facing the religious leaders of mankind is to contemplate, with hearts filled with the spirit of compassion and a desire of steadfast hope, they bear witness to the belief that the imminent realization of this age-old dream of peace is now, by virtue of the transforming effects of Bahá’u’lláh’s revelation, invested with the force of divine authority. Thus we convey to you not only a vision in words: we summon the power of deeds of faith and sacrifice; we convey the anxious plea of our co-religionists everywhere for peace and unity. We join with all who are the victims of aggression, all who yearn for an end to conflict and contention, all whose devotion to principles of peace and world order promotes the ennobling purposes for which humanity was called into being by an all-loving Creator. In the earnestness of our desire to impart to you the fervour of our hope and the depth of our confidence, we cite the emphatic promise of Bahá’u’lláh: “These fruitless strifes, these ruinous wars shall pass away, and the ‘Most Great Peace’ shall come.” of the earth must needs attend it, and, participating in its deliberations, must consider such ways and means as will lay the foundations of the world’s Great Peace amongst men.” The courage, the resolution, the pure motive, the selfless love of one people for another—all the spiritual and moral qualities required for effecting this momentous step towards peace are focused on the will to act. And it is towards arousing the necessary volition that earnest consideration must be given to the reality of man, namely, his thought. To understand the relevance of this potent reality is also to appreciate the social necessity of actualizing its unique value through candid, dispassionate and cordial consultation, and of acting upon the results of this process. Bahá’u’lláh insistently drew attention to the virtues and indispensability of consultation for ordering human affairs. He said: “Consultation bestows greater awareness and transmutes conjecture into certitude. It is a shining light which, in a dark world, leads the way and guides. For everything there is and will continue to be a station of perfection and maturity. The maturity of the gift of understanding is made manifest through consultation.” The very attempt to achieve peace through the consultative action he proposed can release such a salutary spirit among the peoples of the earth that no power could resist the final, triumphal outcome. Concerning the proceedings for this world gathering, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, the son of Bahá’u’lláh and authorized interpreter of his teachings, offered these insights: “They must make the Cause of Peace the object of general consultation, and seek by every means in their power to establish a Union of the nations of the world. They must conclude a binding treaty and establish a covenant, the provisions of which shall be sound, inviolable and definite. They must proclaim it to all The Promise of World Peace by Universal House of Justice Edition 1, (September 2006) 2. The Content may not be modified or altered in any way except to change the font or appearance; 3. The Content must be used solely for a non-commercial purpose. For permission to publish, transmit, display or otherwise use the Content for any commercial purpose, please contact us (http://reference.bahai.org/en/contact.html). Baha’i Terms of Use I II III IV To the Peoples of the World: The Great Peace towards which people of good will throughout the centuries have inclined their hearts, of which seers and poets for countless generations have expressed their vision, and for which from age to age the sacred scriptures of mankind have constantly held the promise, is now at long last within the reach of the nations. For the first time in history it is possible for everyone to view the entire planet, with all its myriad diversified peoples, in one perspective. World peace is not only possible but inevitable. It is the next stage in the evolution of this planet—in the words of one great thinker, “the planetization of mankind”. Whether peace is to be reached only after unimaginable horrors precipitated by humanity’s stubborn clinging to old patterns of behaviour, or is to be embraced now by an act of consultative will, is the choice before all who inhabit the earth. At this critical juncture when the intractable problems confronting nations have been fused into one common concern for the whole world, failure to stem the tide of conflict and disorder would be unconscionably irresponsible. Among the favourable signs are the steadily growing strength of the steps towards world order taken initially near the beginning of this century in the creation of the League of Nations, succeeded by the more broadly based United

What is one problem that The Universal House of Justice says must be addressed?

Religious Strife

and practical approaches. A fresh look at the problem is required, entailing consultation with experts from a wide spectrum of disciplines, devoid of economic and ideological polemics, and involving the people directly affected in the decisions that must urgently be made. It is an issue that is bound up not only with the necessity for eliminating extremes of wealth and poverty but also with those spiritual verities the understanding of which can produce a new universal attitude. Fostering such an attitude is itself a major part of the solution. Unbridled nationalism, as distinguished from a sane and legitimate patriotism, must give way to a wider loyalty, to the love of humanity as a whole. Bahá’u’lláh’s statement is: “The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens.” The concept of world citizenship is a direct result of the contraction of the world into a single neighbourhood through scientific advances and of the indisputable interdependence of nations. Love of all the world’s peoples does not exclude love of one’s country. The advantage of the part in a world society is best served by promoting the advantage of the whole. Current international activities in various fields which nurture mutual affection and a sense of solidarity among peoples need greatly to be increased. Religious strife, throughout history, has been the cause of innumerable wars and conflicts, a major blight to progress, and is increasingly abhorrent to the people of all faiths and no faith. Followers of all religions must be willing to face the basic questions which this strife raises, and to arrive at clear answers. How are the differences between them to be resolved, both in theory and in practice? The challenge facing the religious leaders of mankind is to contemplate, with hearts filled with the spirit of compassion and a desire ultimate reality, that unknowable essence of essences called God. The religions brought to mankind by a succession of spiritual luminaries have been the primary link between humanity and that ultimate reality, and have galvanized and refined mankind’s capacity to achieve spiritual success together with social progress. No serious attempt to set human affairs aright, to achieve world peace, can ignore religion. Man’s perception and practice of it are largely the stuff of history. An eminent historian described religion as a “faculty of human nature”. That the perversion of this faculty has contributed to much of the confusion in society and the conflicts in and between individuals can hardly be denied. But neither can any fair-minded observer discount the preponderating influence exerted by religion on the vital expressions of civilization. Furthermore, its indispensability to social order has repeatedly been demonstrated by its direct effect on laws and morality. Writing of religion as a social force, Bahá’u’lláh said: “Religion is the greatest of all means for the establishment of order in the world and for the peaceful contentment of all that dwell therein.” Referring to the eclipse or corruption of religion, he wrote: “Should the lamp of religion be obscured, chaos and confusion will ensue, and the lights of fairness, of justice, of tranquillity and peace cease to shine.” In an enumeration of such consequences the Bahá’í writings point out that the “perversion of human nature, the degradation of human conduct, the corruption and dissolution of human institutions, reveal themselves, under such circumstances, in their worst and most revolting aspects. Human character is debased, confidence is shaken, the nerves of discipline are relaxed, the voice of human conscience is stilled, the sense of decency and shame is obscured, conceptions of duty, of solidarity, of reciprocity and loyalty are distorted, and the very maturity, must abandon this fetish, recognize the oneness and wholeness of human relationships, and establish once for all the machinery that can best incarnate this fundamental principle of its life.” All contemporary forces of change validate this view. The proofs can be discerned in the many examples already cited of the favourable signs towards world peace in current international movements and developments. The army of men and women, drawn from virtually every culture, race and nation on earth, who serve the multifarious agencies of the United Nations, represent a planetary “civil service” whose impressive accomplishments are indicative of the degree of co-operation that can be attained even under discouraging conditions. An urge towards unity, like a spiritual springtime, struggles to express itself through countless international congresses that bring together people from a vast array of disciplines. It motivates appeals for international projects involving children and youth. Indeed, it is the real source of the remarkable movement towards ecumenism by which members of historically antagonistic religions and sects seem irresistibly drawn towards one another. Together with the opposing tendency to warfare and self-aggrandizement against which it ceaselessly struggles, the drive towards world unity is one of the dominant, pervasive features of life on the planet during the closing years of the twentieth century. The experience of the Bahá’í community may be seen as an example of this enlarging unity. It is a community of some three to four million people drawn from many nations, cultures, classes and creeds, engaged in a wide range of activities serving the spiritual, social and economic needs of the peoples of many lands. It is a single social organism, representative of the diversity of the human family, conducting its affairs through a system of commonly accepted consultative principles, and cherishing equally all the great outpourings of divine guidance in human history. Its existence is yet another convincing proof of the practicality of its Founder’s vision of a united world, another evidence that humanity can live as one global society, equal to whatever challenges its coming of age may entail. If the Bahá’í experience can contribute in whatever measure to reinforcing hope in the unity of the human race, we are happy to offer it as a model for study. In contemplating the supreme importance of the task now challenging the entire world, we bow our heads in humility before the awesome majesty of the divine Creator, Who out of His infinite love has created all humanity from the same stock; exalted the gem-like reality of man; honoured it with intellect and wisdom, nobility and immortality; and conferred upon man the “unique distinction and capacity to know Him and to love Him”, a capacity that “must needs be regarded as the generating impulse and the primary purpose underlying the whole of creation.” We hold firmly the conviction that all human beings have been created “to carry forward an ever-advancing civilization”; that “to act like the beasts of the field is unworthy of man”; that the virtues that befit human dignity are trustworthiness, forbearance, mercy, compassion and loving-kindness towards all peoples. We reaffirm the belief that the “potentialities inherent in the station of man, the full measure of his destiny on earth, the innate excellence of his reality, must all be manifested in this promised Day of God.” These are the motivations for our unshakeable faith that unity and peace are the attainable goal towards which humanity is striving. At this writing, the expectant voices of Bahá’ís can be heard despite the persecution they still endure in the land in which their Faith was born. By their example standard education of every child. A fundamental lack of communication between peoples seriously undermines efforts towards world peace. Adopting an international auxiliary language would go far to resolving this problem and necessitates the most urgent attention. Two points bear emphasizing in all these issues. One is that the abolition of war is not simply a matter of signing treaties and protocols; it is a complex task requiring a new level of commitment to resolving issues not customarily associated with the pursuit of peace. Based on political agreements alone, the idea of collective security is a chimera. The other point is that the primary challenge in dealing with issues of peace is to raise the context to the level of principle, as distinct from pure pragmatism. For, in essence, peace stems from an inner state supported by a spiritual or moral attitude, and it is chiefly in evoking this attitude that the possibility of enduring solutions can be found. There are spiritual principles, or what some call human values, by which solutions can be found for every social problem. Any well-intentioned group can in a general sense devise practical solutions to its problems, but good intentions and practical knowledge are usually not enough. The essential merit of spiritual principle is that it not only presents a perspective which harmonizes with that which is immanent in human nature, it also induces an attitude, a dynamic, a will, an aspiration, which facilitate the discovery and implementation of practical measures. Leaders of governments and all in authority would be well served in their efforts to solve problems if they would first seek to identify the principles involved and then be guided by them. The primary question to be resolved is how the present world, with its entrenched pattern of conflict, can change to a

The Universal House of Justice calls for the support of who?

The United Nations and all people

ultimate reality, that unknowable essence of essences called God. The religions brought to mankind by a succession of spiritual luminaries have been the primary link between humanity and that ultimate reality, and have galvanized and refined mankind’s capacity to achieve spiritual success together with social progress. No serious attempt to set human affairs aright, to achieve world peace, can ignore religion. Man’s perception and practice of it are largely the stuff of history. An eminent historian described religion as a “faculty of human nature”. That the perversion of this faculty has contributed to much of the confusion in society and the conflicts in and between individuals can hardly be denied. But neither can any fair-minded observer discount the preponderating influence exerted by religion on the vital expressions of civilization. Furthermore, its indispensability to social order has repeatedly been demonstrated by its direct effect on laws and morality. Writing of religion as a social force, Bahá’u’lláh said: “Religion is the greatest of all means for the establishment of order in the world and for the peaceful contentment of all that dwell therein.” Referring to the eclipse or corruption of religion, he wrote: “Should the lamp of religion be obscured, chaos and confusion will ensue, and the lights of fairness, of justice, of tranquillity and peace cease to shine.” In an enumeration of such consequences the Bahá’í writings point out that the “perversion of human nature, the degradation of human conduct, the corruption and dissolution of human institutions, reveal themselves, under such circumstances, in their worst and most revolting aspects. Human character is debased, confidence is shaken, the nerves of discipline are relaxed, the voice of human conscience is stilled, the sense of decency and shame is obscured, conceptions of duty, of solidarity, of reciprocity and loyalty are distorted, and the very and practical approaches. A fresh look at the problem is required, entailing consultation with experts from a wide spectrum of disciplines, devoid of economic and ideological polemics, and involving the people directly affected in the decisions that must urgently be made. It is an issue that is bound up not only with the necessity for eliminating extremes of wealth and poverty but also with those spiritual verities the understanding of which can produce a new universal attitude. Fostering such an attitude is itself a major part of the solution. Unbridled nationalism, as distinguished from a sane and legitimate patriotism, must give way to a wider loyalty, to the love of humanity as a whole. Bahá’u’lláh’s statement is: “The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens.” The concept of world citizenship is a direct result of the contraction of the world into a single neighbourhood through scientific advances and of the indisputable interdependence of nations. Love of all the world’s peoples does not exclude love of one’s country. The advantage of the part in a world society is best served by promoting the advantage of the whole. Current international activities in various fields which nurture mutual affection and a sense of solidarity among peoples need greatly to be increased. Religious strife, throughout history, has been the cause of innumerable wars and conflicts, a major blight to progress, and is increasingly abhorrent to the people of all faiths and no faith. Followers of all religions must be willing to face the basic questions which this strife raises, and to arrive at clear answers. How are the differences between them to be resolved, both in theory and in practice? The challenge facing the religious leaders of mankind is to contemplate, with hearts filled with the spirit of compassion and a desire of the earth must needs attend it, and, participating in its deliberations, must consider such ways and means as will lay the foundations of the world’s Great Peace amongst men.” The courage, the resolution, the pure motive, the selfless love of one people for another—all the spiritual and moral qualities required for effecting this momentous step towards peace are focused on the will to act. And it is towards arousing the necessary volition that earnest consideration must be given to the reality of man, namely, his thought. To understand the relevance of this potent reality is also to appreciate the social necessity of actualizing its unique value through candid, dispassionate and cordial consultation, and of acting upon the results of this process. Bahá’u’lláh insistently drew attention to the virtues and indispensability of consultation for ordering human affairs. He said: “Consultation bestows greater awareness and transmutes conjecture into certitude. It is a shining light which, in a dark world, leads the way and guides. For everything there is and will continue to be a station of perfection and maturity. The maturity of the gift of understanding is made manifest through consultation.” The very attempt to achieve peace through the consultative action he proposed can release such a salutary spirit among the peoples of the earth that no power could resist the final, triumphal outcome. Concerning the proceedings for this world gathering, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, the son of Bahá’u’lláh and authorized interpreter of his teachings, offered these insights: “They must make the Cause of Peace the object of general consultation, and seek by every means in their power to establish a Union of the nations of the world. They must conclude a binding treaty and establish a covenant, the provisions of which shall be sound, inviolable and definite. They must proclaim it to all violent and disruptive phenomena associated with it testifies to the spiritual bankruptcy it represents. Indeed, one of the strangest and saddest features of the current outbreak of religious fanaticism is the extent to which, in each case, it is undermining not only the spiritual values which are conducive to the unity of mankind but also those unique moral victories won by the particular religion it purports to serve. However vital a force religion has been in the history of mankind, and however dramatic the current resurgence of militant religious fanaticism, religion and religious institutions have, for many decades, been viewed by increasing numbers of people as irrelevant to the major concerns of the modern world. In its place they have turned either to the hedonistic pursuit of material satisfactions or to the following of man-made ideologies designed to rescue society from the evident evils under which it groans. All too many of these ideologies, alas, instead of embracing the concept of the oneness of mankind and promoting the increase of concord among different peoples, have tended to deify the state, to subordinate the rest of mankind to one nation, race or class, to attempt to suppress all discussion and interchange of ideas, or to callously abandon starving millions to the operations of a market system that all too clearly is aggravating the plight of the majority of mankind, while enabling small sections to live in a condition of affluence scarcely dreamed of by our forebears. How tragic is the record of the substitute faiths that the worldly-wise of our age have created. In the massive disillusionment of entire populations who have been taught to worship at their altars can be read history’s irreversible verdict on their value. The fruits these doctrines have produced, after decades of an increasingly unrestrained exercise of steadfast hope, they bear witness to the belief that the imminent realization of this age-old dream of peace is now, by virtue of the transforming effects of Bahá’u’lláh’s revelation, invested with the force of divine authority. Thus we convey to you not only a vision in words: we summon the power of deeds of faith and sacrifice; we convey the anxious plea of our co-religionists everywhere for peace and unity. We join with all who are the victims of aggression, all who yearn for an end to conflict and contention, all whose devotion to principles of peace and world order promotes the ennobling purposes for which humanity was called into being by an all-loving Creator. In the earnestness of our desire to impart to you the fervour of our hope and the depth of our confidence, we cite the emphatic promise of Bahá’u’lláh: “These fruitless strifes, these ruinous wars shall pass away, and the ‘Most Great Peace’ shall come.”

Human beings are the creation of who?

God

ultimate reality, that unknowable essence of essences called God. The religions brought to mankind by a succession of spiritual luminaries have been the primary link between humanity and that ultimate reality, and have galvanized and refined mankind’s capacity to achieve spiritual success together with social progress. No serious attempt to set human affairs aright, to achieve world peace, can ignore religion. Man’s perception and practice of it are largely the stuff of history. An eminent historian described religion as a “faculty of human nature”. That the perversion of this faculty has contributed to much of the confusion in society and the conflicts in and between individuals can hardly be denied. But neither can any fair-minded observer discount the preponderating influence exerted by religion on the vital expressions of civilization. Furthermore, its indispensability to social order has repeatedly been demonstrated by its direct effect on laws and morality. Writing of religion as a social force, Bahá’u’lláh said: “Religion is the greatest of all means for the establishment of order in the world and for the peaceful contentment of all that dwell therein.” Referring to the eclipse or corruption of religion, he wrote: “Should the lamp of religion be obscured, chaos and confusion will ensue, and the lights of fairness, of justice, of tranquillity and peace cease to shine.” In an enumeration of such consequences the Bahá’í writings point out that the “perversion of human nature, the degradation of human conduct, the corruption and dissolution of human institutions, reveal themselves, under such circumstances, in their worst and most revolting aspects. Human character is debased, confidence is shaken, the nerves of discipline are relaxed, the voice of human conscience is stilled, the sense of decency and shame is obscured, conceptions of duty, of solidarity, of reciprocity and loyalty are distorted, and the very and practical approaches. A fresh look at the problem is required, entailing consultation with experts from a wide spectrum of disciplines, devoid of economic and ideological polemics, and involving the people directly affected in the decisions that must urgently be made. It is an issue that is bound up not only with the necessity for eliminating extremes of wealth and poverty but also with those spiritual verities the understanding of which can produce a new universal attitude. Fostering such an attitude is itself a major part of the solution. Unbridled nationalism, as distinguished from a sane and legitimate patriotism, must give way to a wider loyalty, to the love of humanity as a whole. Bahá’u’lláh’s statement is: “The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens.” The concept of world citizenship is a direct result of the contraction of the world into a single neighbourhood through scientific advances and of the indisputable interdependence of nations. Love of all the world’s peoples does not exclude love of one’s country. The advantage of the part in a world society is best served by promoting the advantage of the whole. Current international activities in various fields which nurture mutual affection and a sense of solidarity among peoples need greatly to be increased. Religious strife, throughout history, has been the cause of innumerable wars and conflicts, a major blight to progress, and is increasingly abhorrent to the people of all faiths and no faith. Followers of all religions must be willing to face the basic questions which this strife raises, and to arrive at clear answers. How are the differences between them to be resolved, both in theory and in practice? The challenge facing the religious leaders of mankind is to contemplate, with hearts filled with the spirit of compassion and a desire The Promise of World Peace by Universal House of Justice Edition 1, (September 2006) 2. The Content may not be modified or altered in any way except to change the font or appearance; 3. The Content must be used solely for a non-commercial purpose. For permission to publish, transmit, display or otherwise use the Content for any commercial purpose, please contact us (http://reference.bahai.org/en/contact.html). Baha’i Terms of Use I II III IV To the Peoples of the World: The Great Peace towards which people of good will throughout the centuries have inclined their hearts, of which seers and poets for countless generations have expressed their vision, and for which from age to age the sacred scriptures of mankind have constantly held the promise, is now at long last within the reach of the nations. For the first time in history it is possible for everyone to view the entire planet, with all its myriad diversified peoples, in one perspective. World peace is not only possible but inevitable. It is the next stage in the evolution of this planet—in the words of one great thinker, “the planetization of mankind”. Whether peace is to be reached only after unimaginable horrors precipitated by humanity’s stubborn clinging to old patterns of behaviour, or is to be embraced now by an act of consultative will, is the choice before all who inhabit the earth. At this critical juncture when the intractable problems confronting nations have been fused into one common concern for the whole world, failure to stem the tide of conflict and disorder would be unconscionably irresponsible. Among the favourable signs are the steadily growing strength of the steps towards world order taken initially near the beginning of this century in the creation of the League of Nations, succeeded by the more broadly based United of steadfast hope, they bear witness to the belief that the imminent realization of this age-old dream of peace is now, by virtue of the transforming effects of Bahá’u’lláh’s revelation, invested with the force of divine authority. Thus we convey to you not only a vision in words: we summon the power of deeds of faith and sacrifice; we convey the anxious plea of our co-religionists everywhere for peace and unity. We join with all who are the victims of aggression, all who yearn for an end to conflict and contention, all whose devotion to principles of peace and world order promotes the ennobling purposes for which humanity was called into being by an all-loving Creator. In the earnestness of our desire to impart to you the fervour of our hope and the depth of our confidence, we cite the emphatic promise of Bahá’u’lláh: “These fruitless strifes, these ruinous wars shall pass away, and the ‘Most Great Peace’ shall come.” divine guidance in human history. Its existence is yet another convincing proof of the practicality of its Founder’s vision of a united world, another evidence that humanity can live as one global society, equal to whatever challenges its coming of age may entail. If the Bahá’í experience can contribute in whatever measure to reinforcing hope in the unity of the human race, we are happy to offer it as a model for study. In contemplating the supreme importance of the task now challenging the entire world, we bow our heads in humility before the awesome majesty of the divine Creator, Who out of His infinite love has created all humanity from the same stock; exalted the gem-like reality of man; honoured it with intellect and wisdom, nobility and immortality; and conferred upon man the “unique distinction and capacity to know Him and to love Him”, a capacity that “must needs be regarded as the generating impulse and the primary purpose underlying the whole of creation.” We hold firmly the conviction that all human beings have been created “to carry forward an ever-advancing civilization”; that “to act like the beasts of the field is unworthy of man”; that the virtues that befit human dignity are trustworthiness, forbearance, mercy, compassion and loving-kindness towards all peoples. We reaffirm the belief that the “potentialities inherent in the station of man, the full measure of his destiny on earth, the innate excellence of his reality, must all be manifested in this promised Day of God.” These are the motivations for our unshakeable faith that unity and peace are the attainable goal towards which humanity is striving. At this writing, the expectant voices of Bahá’ís can be heard despite the persecution they still endure in the land in which their Faith was born. By their example

Who is quoted in the Universal House of Justice?

Baha'u'llah

and practical approaches. A fresh look at the problem is required, entailing consultation with experts from a wide spectrum of disciplines, devoid of economic and ideological polemics, and involving the people directly affected in the decisions that must urgently be made. It is an issue that is bound up not only with the necessity for eliminating extremes of wealth and poverty but also with those spiritual verities the understanding of which can produce a new universal attitude. Fostering such an attitude is itself a major part of the solution. Unbridled nationalism, as distinguished from a sane and legitimate patriotism, must give way to a wider loyalty, to the love of humanity as a whole. Bahá’u’lláh’s statement is: “The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens.” The concept of world citizenship is a direct result of the contraction of the world into a single neighbourhood through scientific advances and of the indisputable interdependence of nations. Love of all the world’s peoples does not exclude love of one’s country. The advantage of the part in a world society is best served by promoting the advantage of the whole. Current international activities in various fields which nurture mutual affection and a sense of solidarity among peoples need greatly to be increased. Religious strife, throughout history, has been the cause of innumerable wars and conflicts, a major blight to progress, and is increasingly abhorrent to the people of all faiths and no faith. Followers of all religions must be willing to face the basic questions which this strife raises, and to arrive at clear answers. How are the differences between them to be resolved, both in theory and in practice? The challenge facing the religious leaders of mankind is to contemplate, with hearts filled with the spirit of compassion and a desire ultimate reality, that unknowable essence of essences called God. The religions brought to mankind by a succession of spiritual luminaries have been the primary link between humanity and that ultimate reality, and have galvanized and refined mankind’s capacity to achieve spiritual success together with social progress. No serious attempt to set human affairs aright, to achieve world peace, can ignore religion. Man’s perception and practice of it are largely the stuff of history. An eminent historian described religion as a “faculty of human nature”. That the perversion of this faculty has contributed to much of the confusion in society and the conflicts in and between individuals can hardly be denied. But neither can any fair-minded observer discount the preponderating influence exerted by religion on the vital expressions of civilization. Furthermore, its indispensability to social order has repeatedly been demonstrated by its direct effect on laws and morality. Writing of religion as a social force, Bahá’u’lláh said: “Religion is the greatest of all means for the establishment of order in the world and for the peaceful contentment of all that dwell therein.” Referring to the eclipse or corruption of religion, he wrote: “Should the lamp of religion be obscured, chaos and confusion will ensue, and the lights of fairness, of justice, of tranquillity and peace cease to shine.” In an enumeration of such consequences the Bahá’í writings point out that the “perversion of human nature, the degradation of human conduct, the corruption and dissolution of human institutions, reveal themselves, under such circumstances, in their worst and most revolting aspects. Human character is debased, confidence is shaken, the nerves of discipline are relaxed, the voice of human conscience is stilled, the sense of decency and shame is obscured, conceptions of duty, of solidarity, of reciprocity and loyalty are distorted, and the very standard education of every child. A fundamental lack of communication between peoples seriously undermines efforts towards world peace. Adopting an international auxiliary language would go far to resolving this problem and necessitates the most urgent attention. Two points bear emphasizing in all these issues. One is that the abolition of war is not simply a matter of signing treaties and protocols; it is a complex task requiring a new level of commitment to resolving issues not customarily associated with the pursuit of peace. Based on political agreements alone, the idea of collective security is a chimera. The other point is that the primary challenge in dealing with issues of peace is to raise the context to the level of principle, as distinct from pure pragmatism. For, in essence, peace stems from an inner state supported by a spiritual or moral attitude, and it is chiefly in evoking this attitude that the possibility of enduring solutions can be found. There are spiritual principles, or what some call human values, by which solutions can be found for every social problem. Any well-intentioned group can in a general sense devise practical solutions to its problems, but good intentions and practical knowledge are usually not enough. The essential merit of spiritual principle is that it not only presents a perspective which harmonizes with that which is immanent in human nature, it also induces an attitude, a dynamic, a will, an aspiration, which facilitate the discovery and implementation of practical measures. Leaders of governments and all in authority would be well served in their efforts to solve problems if they would first seek to identify the principles involved and then be guided by them. The primary question to be resolved is how the present world, with its entrenched pattern of conflict, can change to a of the earth must needs attend it, and, participating in its deliberations, must consider such ways and means as will lay the foundations of the world’s Great Peace amongst men.” The courage, the resolution, the pure motive, the selfless love of one people for another—all the spiritual and moral qualities required for effecting this momentous step towards peace are focused on the will to act. And it is towards arousing the necessary volition that earnest consideration must be given to the reality of man, namely, his thought. To understand the relevance of this potent reality is also to appreciate the social necessity of actualizing its unique value through candid, dispassionate and cordial consultation, and of acting upon the results of this process. Bahá’u’lláh insistently drew attention to the virtues and indispensability of consultation for ordering human affairs. He said: “Consultation bestows greater awareness and transmutes conjecture into certitude. It is a shining light which, in a dark world, leads the way and guides. For everything there is and will continue to be a station of perfection and maturity. The maturity of the gift of understanding is made manifest through consultation.” The very attempt to achieve peace through the consultative action he proposed can release such a salutary spirit among the peoples of the earth that no power could resist the final, triumphal outcome. Concerning the proceedings for this world gathering, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, the son of Bahá’u’lláh and authorized interpreter of his teachings, offered these insights: “They must make the Cause of Peace the object of general consultation, and seek by every means in their power to establish a Union of the nations of the world. They must conclude a binding treaty and establish a covenant, the provisions of which shall be sound, inviolable and definite. They must proclaim it to all divine guidance in human history. Its existence is yet another convincing proof of the practicality of its Founder’s vision of a united world, another evidence that humanity can live as one global society, equal to whatever challenges its coming of age may entail. If the Bahá’í experience can contribute in whatever measure to reinforcing hope in the unity of the human race, we are happy to offer it as a model for study. In contemplating the supreme importance of the task now challenging the entire world, we bow our heads in humility before the awesome majesty of the divine Creator, Who out of His infinite love has created all humanity from the same stock; exalted the gem-like reality of man; honoured it with intellect and wisdom, nobility and immortality; and conferred upon man the “unique distinction and capacity to know Him and to love Him”, a capacity that “must needs be regarded as the generating impulse and the primary purpose underlying the whole of creation.” We hold firmly the conviction that all human beings have been created “to carry forward an ever-advancing civilization”; that “to act like the beasts of the field is unworthy of man”; that the virtues that befit human dignity are trustworthiness, forbearance, mercy, compassion and loving-kindness towards all peoples. We reaffirm the belief that the “potentialities inherent in the station of man, the full measure of his destiny on earth, the innate excellence of his reality, must all be manifested in this promised Day of God.” These are the motivations for our unshakeable faith that unity and peace are the attainable goal towards which humanity is striving. At this writing, the expectant voices of Bahá’ís can be heard despite the persecution they still endure in the land in which their Faith was born. By their example

The Universal House of Justice says that peace cannot happen without what?

Religion

and practical approaches. A fresh look at the problem is required, entailing consultation with experts from a wide spectrum of disciplines, devoid of economic and ideological polemics, and involving the people directly affected in the decisions that must urgently be made. It is an issue that is bound up not only with the necessity for eliminating extremes of wealth and poverty but also with those spiritual verities the understanding of which can produce a new universal attitude. Fostering such an attitude is itself a major part of the solution. Unbridled nationalism, as distinguished from a sane and legitimate patriotism, must give way to a wider loyalty, to the love of humanity as a whole. Bahá’u’lláh’s statement is: “The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens.” The concept of world citizenship is a direct result of the contraction of the world into a single neighbourhood through scientific advances and of the indisputable interdependence of nations. Love of all the world’s peoples does not exclude love of one’s country. The advantage of the part in a world society is best served by promoting the advantage of the whole. Current international activities in various fields which nurture mutual affection and a sense of solidarity among peoples need greatly to be increased. Religious strife, throughout history, has been the cause of innumerable wars and conflicts, a major blight to progress, and is increasingly abhorrent to the people of all faiths and no faith. Followers of all religions must be willing to face the basic questions which this strife raises, and to arrive at clear answers. How are the differences between them to be resolved, both in theory and in practice? The challenge facing the religious leaders of mankind is to contemplate, with hearts filled with the spirit of compassion and a desire ultimate reality, that unknowable essence of essences called God. The religions brought to mankind by a succession of spiritual luminaries have been the primary link between humanity and that ultimate reality, and have galvanized and refined mankind’s capacity to achieve spiritual success together with social progress. No serious attempt to set human affairs aright, to achieve world peace, can ignore religion. Man’s perception and practice of it are largely the stuff of history. An eminent historian described religion as a “faculty of human nature”. That the perversion of this faculty has contributed to much of the confusion in society and the conflicts in and between individuals can hardly be denied. But neither can any fair-minded observer discount the preponderating influence exerted by religion on the vital expressions of civilization. Furthermore, its indispensability to social order has repeatedly been demonstrated by its direct effect on laws and morality. Writing of religion as a social force, Bahá’u’lláh said: “Religion is the greatest of all means for the establishment of order in the world and for the peaceful contentment of all that dwell therein.” Referring to the eclipse or corruption of religion, he wrote: “Should the lamp of religion be obscured, chaos and confusion will ensue, and the lights of fairness, of justice, of tranquillity and peace cease to shine.” In an enumeration of such consequences the Bahá’í writings point out that the “perversion of human nature, the degradation of human conduct, the corruption and dissolution of human institutions, reveal themselves, under such circumstances, in their worst and most revolting aspects. Human character is debased, confidence is shaken, the nerves of discipline are relaxed, the voice of human conscience is stilled, the sense of decency and shame is obscured, conceptions of duty, of solidarity, of reciprocity and loyalty are distorted, and the very of the earth must needs attend it, and, participating in its deliberations, must consider such ways and means as will lay the foundations of the world’s Great Peace amongst men.” The courage, the resolution, the pure motive, the selfless love of one people for another—all the spiritual and moral qualities required for effecting this momentous step towards peace are focused on the will to act. And it is towards arousing the necessary volition that earnest consideration must be given to the reality of man, namely, his thought. To understand the relevance of this potent reality is also to appreciate the social necessity of actualizing its unique value through candid, dispassionate and cordial consultation, and of acting upon the results of this process. Bahá’u’lláh insistently drew attention to the virtues and indispensability of consultation for ordering human affairs. He said: “Consultation bestows greater awareness and transmutes conjecture into certitude. It is a shining light which, in a dark world, leads the way and guides. For everything there is and will continue to be a station of perfection and maturity. The maturity of the gift of understanding is made manifest through consultation.” The very attempt to achieve peace through the consultative action he proposed can release such a salutary spirit among the peoples of the earth that no power could resist the final, triumphal outcome. Concerning the proceedings for this world gathering, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, the son of Bahá’u’lláh and authorized interpreter of his teachings, offered these insights: “They must make the Cause of Peace the object of general consultation, and seek by every means in their power to establish a Union of the nations of the world. They must conclude a binding treaty and establish a covenant, the provisions of which shall be sound, inviolable and definite. They must proclaim it to all standard education of every child. A fundamental lack of communication between peoples seriously undermines efforts towards world peace. Adopting an international auxiliary language would go far to resolving this problem and necessitates the most urgent attention. Two points bear emphasizing in all these issues. One is that the abolition of war is not simply a matter of signing treaties and protocols; it is a complex task requiring a new level of commitment to resolving issues not customarily associated with the pursuit of peace. Based on political agreements alone, the idea of collective security is a chimera. The other point is that the primary challenge in dealing with issues of peace is to raise the context to the level of principle, as distinct from pure pragmatism. For, in essence, peace stems from an inner state supported by a spiritual or moral attitude, and it is chiefly in evoking this attitude that the possibility of enduring solutions can be found. There are spiritual principles, or what some call human values, by which solutions can be found for every social problem. Any well-intentioned group can in a general sense devise practical solutions to its problems, but good intentions and practical knowledge are usually not enough. The essential merit of spiritual principle is that it not only presents a perspective which harmonizes with that which is immanent in human nature, it also induces an attitude, a dynamic, a will, an aspiration, which facilitate the discovery and implementation of practical measures. Leaders of governments and all in authority would be well served in their efforts to solve problems if they would first seek to identify the principles involved and then be guided by them. The primary question to be resolved is how the present world, with its entrenched pattern of conflict, can change to a of steadfast hope, they bear witness to the belief that the imminent realization of this age-old dream of peace is now, by virtue of the transforming effects of Bahá’u’lláh’s revelation, invested with the force of divine authority. Thus we convey to you not only a vision in words: we summon the power of deeds of faith and sacrifice; we convey the anxious plea of our co-religionists everywhere for peace and unity. We join with all who are the victims of aggression, all who yearn for an end to conflict and contention, all whose devotion to principles of peace and world order promotes the ennobling purposes for which humanity was called into being by an all-loving Creator. In the earnestness of our desire to impart to you the fervour of our hope and the depth of our confidence, we cite the emphatic promise of Bahá’u’lláh: “These fruitless strifes, these ruinous wars shall pass away, and the ‘Most Great Peace’ shall come.”

What does peace need to be founded on?

the thought that mankind is one human family

and practical approaches. A fresh look at the problem is required, entailing consultation with experts from a wide spectrum of disciplines, devoid of economic and ideological polemics, and involving the people directly affected in the decisions that must urgently be made. It is an issue that is bound up not only with the necessity for eliminating extremes of wealth and poverty but also with those spiritual verities the understanding of which can produce a new universal attitude. Fostering such an attitude is itself a major part of the solution. Unbridled nationalism, as distinguished from a sane and legitimate patriotism, must give way to a wider loyalty, to the love of humanity as a whole. Bahá’u’lláh’s statement is: “The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens.” The concept of world citizenship is a direct result of the contraction of the world into a single neighbourhood through scientific advances and of the indisputable interdependence of nations. Love of all the world’s peoples does not exclude love of one’s country. The advantage of the part in a world society is best served by promoting the advantage of the whole. Current international activities in various fields which nurture mutual affection and a sense of solidarity among peoples need greatly to be increased. Religious strife, throughout history, has been the cause of innumerable wars and conflicts, a major blight to progress, and is increasingly abhorrent to the people of all faiths and no faith. Followers of all religions must be willing to face the basic questions which this strife raises, and to arrive at clear answers. How are the differences between them to be resolved, both in theory and in practice? The challenge facing the religious leaders of mankind is to contemplate, with hearts filled with the spirit of compassion and a desire of the earth must needs attend it, and, participating in its deliberations, must consider such ways and means as will lay the foundations of the world’s Great Peace amongst men.” The courage, the resolution, the pure motive, the selfless love of one people for another—all the spiritual and moral qualities required for effecting this momentous step towards peace are focused on the will to act. And it is towards arousing the necessary volition that earnest consideration must be given to the reality of man, namely, his thought. To understand the relevance of this potent reality is also to appreciate the social necessity of actualizing its unique value through candid, dispassionate and cordial consultation, and of acting upon the results of this process. Bahá’u’lláh insistently drew attention to the virtues and indispensability of consultation for ordering human affairs. He said: “Consultation bestows greater awareness and transmutes conjecture into certitude. It is a shining light which, in a dark world, leads the way and guides. For everything there is and will continue to be a station of perfection and maturity. The maturity of the gift of understanding is made manifest through consultation.” The very attempt to achieve peace through the consultative action he proposed can release such a salutary spirit among the peoples of the earth that no power could resist the final, triumphal outcome. Concerning the proceedings for this world gathering, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, the son of Bahá’u’lláh and authorized interpreter of his teachings, offered these insights: “They must make the Cause of Peace the object of general consultation, and seek by every means in their power to establish a Union of the nations of the world. They must conclude a binding treaty and establish a covenant, the provisions of which shall be sound, inviolable and definite. They must proclaim it to all ultimate reality, that unknowable essence of essences called God. The religions brought to mankind by a succession of spiritual luminaries have been the primary link between humanity and that ultimate reality, and have galvanized and refined mankind’s capacity to achieve spiritual success together with social progress. No serious attempt to set human affairs aright, to achieve world peace, can ignore religion. Man’s perception and practice of it are largely the stuff of history. An eminent historian described religion as a “faculty of human nature”. That the perversion of this faculty has contributed to much of the confusion in society and the conflicts in and between individuals can hardly be denied. But neither can any fair-minded observer discount the preponderating influence exerted by religion on the vital expressions of civilization. Furthermore, its indispensability to social order has repeatedly been demonstrated by its direct effect on laws and morality. Writing of religion as a social force, Bahá’u’lláh said: “Religion is the greatest of all means for the establishment of order in the world and for the peaceful contentment of all that dwell therein.” Referring to the eclipse or corruption of religion, he wrote: “Should the lamp of religion be obscured, chaos and confusion will ensue, and the lights of fairness, of justice, of tranquillity and peace cease to shine.” In an enumeration of such consequences the Bahá’í writings point out that the “perversion of human nature, the degradation of human conduct, the corruption and dissolution of human institutions, reveal themselves, under such circumstances, in their worst and most revolting aspects. Human character is debased, confidence is shaken, the nerves of discipline are relaxed, the voice of human conscience is stilled, the sense of decency and shame is obscured, conceptions of duty, of solidarity, of reciprocity and loyalty are distorted, and the very maturity, must abandon this fetish, recognize the oneness and wholeness of human relationships, and establish once for all the machinery that can best incarnate this fundamental principle of its life.” All contemporary forces of change validate this view. The proofs can be discerned in the many examples already cited of the favourable signs towards world peace in current international movements and developments. The army of men and women, drawn from virtually every culture, race and nation on earth, who serve the multifarious agencies of the United Nations, represent a planetary “civil service” whose impressive accomplishments are indicative of the degree of co-operation that can be attained even under discouraging conditions. An urge towards unity, like a spiritual springtime, struggles to express itself through countless international congresses that bring together people from a vast array of disciplines. It motivates appeals for international projects involving children and youth. Indeed, it is the real source of the remarkable movement towards ecumenism by which members of historically antagonistic religions and sects seem irresistibly drawn towards one another. Together with the opposing tendency to warfare and self-aggrandizement against which it ceaselessly struggles, the drive towards world unity is one of the dominant, pervasive features of life on the planet during the closing years of the twentieth century. The experience of the Bahá’í community may be seen as an example of this enlarging unity. It is a community of some three to four million people drawn from many nations, cultures, classes and creeds, engaged in a wide range of activities serving the spiritual, social and economic needs of the peoples of many lands. It is a single social organism, representative of the diversity of the human family, conducting its affairs through a system of commonly accepted consultative principles, and cherishing equally all the great outpourings of divine guidance in human history. Its existence is yet another convincing proof of the practicality of its Founder’s vision of a united world, another evidence that humanity can live as one global society, equal to whatever challenges its coming of age may entail. If the Bahá’í experience can contribute in whatever measure to reinforcing hope in the unity of the human race, we are happy to offer it as a model for study. In contemplating the supreme importance of the task now challenging the entire world, we bow our heads in humility before the awesome majesty of the divine Creator, Who out of His infinite love has created all humanity from the same stock; exalted the gem-like reality of man; honoured it with intellect and wisdom, nobility and immortality; and conferred upon man the “unique distinction and capacity to know Him and to love Him”, a capacity that “must needs be regarded as the generating impulse and the primary purpose underlying the whole of creation.” We hold firmly the conviction that all human beings have been created “to carry forward an ever-advancing civilization”; that “to act like the beasts of the field is unworthy of man”; that the virtues that befit human dignity are trustworthiness, forbearance, mercy, compassion and loving-kindness towards all peoples. We reaffirm the belief that the “potentialities inherent in the station of man, the full measure of his destiny on earth, the innate excellence of his reality, must all be manifested in this promised Day of God.” These are the motivations for our unshakeable faith that unity and peace are the attainable goal towards which humanity is striving. At this writing, the expectant voices of Bahá’ís can be heard despite the persecution they still endure in the land in which their Faith was born. By their example

If we decide to do so what are we, as humans capable of creating?

A peaceful world

ultimate reality, that unknowable essence of essences called God. The religions brought to mankind by a succession of spiritual luminaries have been the primary link between humanity and that ultimate reality, and have galvanized and refined mankind’s capacity to achieve spiritual success together with social progress. No serious attempt to set human affairs aright, to achieve world peace, can ignore religion. Man’s perception and practice of it are largely the stuff of history. An eminent historian described religion as a “faculty of human nature”. That the perversion of this faculty has contributed to much of the confusion in society and the conflicts in and between individuals can hardly be denied. But neither can any fair-minded observer discount the preponderating influence exerted by religion on the vital expressions of civilization. Furthermore, its indispensability to social order has repeatedly been demonstrated by its direct effect on laws and morality. Writing of religion as a social force, Bahá’u’lláh said: “Religion is the greatest of all means for the establishment of order in the world and for the peaceful contentment of all that dwell therein.” Referring to the eclipse or corruption of religion, he wrote: “Should the lamp of religion be obscured, chaos and confusion will ensue, and the lights of fairness, of justice, of tranquillity and peace cease to shine.” In an enumeration of such consequences the Bahá’í writings point out that the “perversion of human nature, the degradation of human conduct, the corruption and dissolution of human institutions, reveal themselves, under such circumstances, in their worst and most revolting aspects. Human character is debased, confidence is shaken, the nerves of discipline are relaxed, the voice of human conscience is stilled, the sense of decency and shame is obscured, conceptions of duty, of solidarity, of reciprocity and loyalty are distorted, and the very of the earth must needs attend it, and, participating in its deliberations, must consider such ways and means as will lay the foundations of the world’s Great Peace amongst men.” The courage, the resolution, the pure motive, the selfless love of one people for another—all the spiritual and moral qualities required for effecting this momentous step towards peace are focused on the will to act. And it is towards arousing the necessary volition that earnest consideration must be given to the reality of man, namely, his thought. To understand the relevance of this potent reality is also to appreciate the social necessity of actualizing its unique value through candid, dispassionate and cordial consultation, and of acting upon the results of this process. Bahá’u’lláh insistently drew attention to the virtues and indispensability of consultation for ordering human affairs. He said: “Consultation bestows greater awareness and transmutes conjecture into certitude. It is a shining light which, in a dark world, leads the way and guides. For everything there is and will continue to be a station of perfection and maturity. The maturity of the gift of understanding is made manifest through consultation.” The very attempt to achieve peace through the consultative action he proposed can release such a salutary spirit among the peoples of the earth that no power could resist the final, triumphal outcome. Concerning the proceedings for this world gathering, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, the son of Bahá’u’lláh and authorized interpreter of his teachings, offered these insights: “They must make the Cause of Peace the object of general consultation, and seek by every means in their power to establish a Union of the nations of the world. They must conclude a binding treaty and establish a covenant, the provisions of which shall be sound, inviolable and definite. They must proclaim it to all divine guidance in human history. Its existence is yet another convincing proof of the practicality of its Founder’s vision of a united world, another evidence that humanity can live as one global society, equal to whatever challenges its coming of age may entail. If the Bahá’í experience can contribute in whatever measure to reinforcing hope in the unity of the human race, we are happy to offer it as a model for study. In contemplating the supreme importance of the task now challenging the entire world, we bow our heads in humility before the awesome majesty of the divine Creator, Who out of His infinite love has created all humanity from the same stock; exalted the gem-like reality of man; honoured it with intellect and wisdom, nobility and immortality; and conferred upon man the “unique distinction and capacity to know Him and to love Him”, a capacity that “must needs be regarded as the generating impulse and the primary purpose underlying the whole of creation.” We hold firmly the conviction that all human beings have been created “to carry forward an ever-advancing civilization”; that “to act like the beasts of the field is unworthy of man”; that the virtues that befit human dignity are trustworthiness, forbearance, mercy, compassion and loving-kindness towards all peoples. We reaffirm the belief that the “potentialities inherent in the station of man, the full measure of his destiny on earth, the innate excellence of his reality, must all be manifested in this promised Day of God.” These are the motivations for our unshakeable faith that unity and peace are the attainable goal towards which humanity is striving. At this writing, the expectant voices of Bahá’ís can be heard despite the persecution they still endure in the land in which their Faith was born. By their example and practical approaches. A fresh look at the problem is required, entailing consultation with experts from a wide spectrum of disciplines, devoid of economic and ideological polemics, and involving the people directly affected in the decisions that must urgently be made. It is an issue that is bound up not only with the necessity for eliminating extremes of wealth and poverty but also with those spiritual verities the understanding of which can produce a new universal attitude. Fostering such an attitude is itself a major part of the solution. Unbridled nationalism, as distinguished from a sane and legitimate patriotism, must give way to a wider loyalty, to the love of humanity as a whole. Bahá’u’lláh’s statement is: “The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens.” The concept of world citizenship is a direct result of the contraction of the world into a single neighbourhood through scientific advances and of the indisputable interdependence of nations. Love of all the world’s peoples does not exclude love of one’s country. The advantage of the part in a world society is best served by promoting the advantage of the whole. Current international activities in various fields which nurture mutual affection and a sense of solidarity among peoples need greatly to be increased. Religious strife, throughout history, has been the cause of innumerable wars and conflicts, a major blight to progress, and is increasingly abhorrent to the people of all faiths and no faith. Followers of all religions must be willing to face the basic questions which this strife raises, and to arrive at clear answers. How are the differences between them to be resolved, both in theory and in practice? The challenge facing the religious leaders of mankind is to contemplate, with hearts filled with the spirit of compassion and a desire standard education of every child. A fundamental lack of communication between peoples seriously undermines efforts towards world peace. Adopting an international auxiliary language would go far to resolving this problem and necessitates the most urgent attention. Two points bear emphasizing in all these issues. One is that the abolition of war is not simply a matter of signing treaties and protocols; it is a complex task requiring a new level of commitment to resolving issues not customarily associated with the pursuit of peace. Based on political agreements alone, the idea of collective security is a chimera. The other point is that the primary challenge in dealing with issues of peace is to raise the context to the level of principle, as distinct from pure pragmatism. For, in essence, peace stems from an inner state supported by a spiritual or moral attitude, and it is chiefly in evoking this attitude that the possibility of enduring solutions can be found. There are spiritual principles, or what some call human values, by which solutions can be found for every social problem. Any well-intentioned group can in a general sense devise practical solutions to its problems, but good intentions and practical knowledge are usually not enough. The essential merit of spiritual principle is that it not only presents a perspective which harmonizes with that which is immanent in human nature, it also induces an attitude, a dynamic, a will, an aspiration, which facilitate the discovery and implementation of practical measures. Leaders of governments and all in authority would be well served in their efforts to solve problems if they would first seek to identify the principles involved and then be guided by them. The primary question to be resolved is how the present world, with its entrenched pattern of conflict, can change to a

What discriminations need to be addressed?

race, gender, and religious beliefs

and practical approaches. A fresh look at the problem is required, entailing consultation with experts from a wide spectrum of disciplines, devoid of economic and ideological polemics, and involving the people directly affected in the decisions that must urgently be made. It is an issue that is bound up not only with the necessity for eliminating extremes of wealth and poverty but also with those spiritual verities the understanding of which can produce a new universal attitude. Fostering such an attitude is itself a major part of the solution. Unbridled nationalism, as distinguished from a sane and legitimate patriotism, must give way to a wider loyalty, to the love of humanity as a whole. Bahá’u’lláh’s statement is: “The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens.” The concept of world citizenship is a direct result of the contraction of the world into a single neighbourhood through scientific advances and of the indisputable interdependence of nations. Love of all the world’s peoples does not exclude love of one’s country. The advantage of the part in a world society is best served by promoting the advantage of the whole. Current international activities in various fields which nurture mutual affection and a sense of solidarity among peoples need greatly to be increased. Religious strife, throughout history, has been the cause of innumerable wars and conflicts, a major blight to progress, and is increasingly abhorrent to the people of all faiths and no faith. Followers of all religions must be willing to face the basic questions which this strife raises, and to arrive at clear answers. How are the differences between them to be resolved, both in theory and in practice? The challenge facing the religious leaders of mankind is to contemplate, with hearts filled with the spirit of compassion and a desire divine guidance in human history. Its existence is yet another convincing proof of the practicality of its Founder’s vision of a united world, another evidence that humanity can live as one global society, equal to whatever challenges its coming of age may entail. If the Bahá’í experience can contribute in whatever measure to reinforcing hope in the unity of the human race, we are happy to offer it as a model for study. In contemplating the supreme importance of the task now challenging the entire world, we bow our heads in humility before the awesome majesty of the divine Creator, Who out of His infinite love has created all humanity from the same stock; exalted the gem-like reality of man; honoured it with intellect and wisdom, nobility and immortality; and conferred upon man the “unique distinction and capacity to know Him and to love Him”, a capacity that “must needs be regarded as the generating impulse and the primary purpose underlying the whole of creation.” We hold firmly the conviction that all human beings have been created “to carry forward an ever-advancing civilization”; that “to act like the beasts of the field is unworthy of man”; that the virtues that befit human dignity are trustworthiness, forbearance, mercy, compassion and loving-kindness towards all peoples. We reaffirm the belief that the “potentialities inherent in the station of man, the full measure of his destiny on earth, the innate excellence of his reality, must all be manifested in this promised Day of God.” These are the motivations for our unshakeable faith that unity and peace are the attainable goal towards which humanity is striving. At this writing, the expectant voices of Bahá’ís can be heard despite the persecution they still endure in the land in which their Faith was born. By their example ultimate reality, that unknowable essence of essences called God. The religions brought to mankind by a succession of spiritual luminaries have been the primary link between humanity and that ultimate reality, and have galvanized and refined mankind’s capacity to achieve spiritual success together with social progress. No serious attempt to set human affairs aright, to achieve world peace, can ignore religion. Man’s perception and practice of it are largely the stuff of history. An eminent historian described religion as a “faculty of human nature”. That the perversion of this faculty has contributed to much of the confusion in society and the conflicts in and between individuals can hardly be denied. But neither can any fair-minded observer discount the preponderating influence exerted by religion on the vital expressions of civilization. Furthermore, its indispensability to social order has repeatedly been demonstrated by its direct effect on laws and morality. Writing of religion as a social force, Bahá’u’lláh said: “Religion is the greatest of all means for the establishment of order in the world and for the peaceful contentment of all that dwell therein.” Referring to the eclipse or corruption of religion, he wrote: “Should the lamp of religion be obscured, chaos and confusion will ensue, and the lights of fairness, of justice, of tranquillity and peace cease to shine.” In an enumeration of such consequences the Bahá’í writings point out that the “perversion of human nature, the degradation of human conduct, the corruption and dissolution of human institutions, reveal themselves, under such circumstances, in their worst and most revolting aspects. Human character is debased, confidence is shaken, the nerves of discipline are relaxed, the voice of human conscience is stilled, the sense of decency and shame is obscured, conceptions of duty, of solidarity, of reciprocity and loyalty are distorted, and the very of the earth must needs attend it, and, participating in its deliberations, must consider such ways and means as will lay the foundations of the world’s Great Peace amongst men.” The courage, the resolution, the pure motive, the selfless love of one people for another—all the spiritual and moral qualities required for effecting this momentous step towards peace are focused on the will to act. And it is towards arousing the necessary volition that earnest consideration must be given to the reality of man, namely, his thought. To understand the relevance of this potent reality is also to appreciate the social necessity of actualizing its unique value through candid, dispassionate and cordial consultation, and of acting upon the results of this process. Bahá’u’lláh insistently drew attention to the virtues and indispensability of consultation for ordering human affairs. He said: “Consultation bestows greater awareness and transmutes conjecture into certitude. It is a shining light which, in a dark world, leads the way and guides. For everything there is and will continue to be a station of perfection and maturity. The maturity of the gift of understanding is made manifest through consultation.” The very attempt to achieve peace through the consultative action he proposed can release such a salutary spirit among the peoples of the earth that no power could resist the final, triumphal outcome. Concerning the proceedings for this world gathering, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, the son of Bahá’u’lláh and authorized interpreter of his teachings, offered these insights: “They must make the Cause of Peace the object of general consultation, and seek by every means in their power to establish a Union of the nations of the world. They must conclude a binding treaty and establish a covenant, the provisions of which shall be sound, inviolable and definite. They must proclaim it to all standard education of every child. A fundamental lack of communication between peoples seriously undermines efforts towards world peace. Adopting an international auxiliary language would go far to resolving this problem and necessitates the most urgent attention. Two points bear emphasizing in all these issues. One is that the abolition of war is not simply a matter of signing treaties and protocols; it is a complex task requiring a new level of commitment to resolving issues not customarily associated with the pursuit of peace. Based on political agreements alone, the idea of collective security is a chimera. The other point is that the primary challenge in dealing with issues of peace is to raise the context to the level of principle, as distinct from pure pragmatism. For, in essence, peace stems from an inner state supported by a spiritual or moral attitude, and it is chiefly in evoking this attitude that the possibility of enduring solutions can be found. There are spiritual principles, or what some call human values, by which solutions can be found for every social problem. Any well-intentioned group can in a general sense devise practical solutions to its problems, but good intentions and practical knowledge are usually not enough. The essential merit of spiritual principle is that it not only presents a perspective which harmonizes with that which is immanent in human nature, it also induces an attitude, a dynamic, a will, an aspiration, which facilitate the discovery and implementation of practical measures. Leaders of governments and all in authority would be well served in their efforts to solve problems if they would first seek to identify the principles involved and then be guided by them. The primary question to be resolved is how the present world, with its entrenched pattern of conflict, can change to a

What entity produces the Statement?

The Universal House of Justice.

ultimate reality, that unknowable essence of essences called God. The religions brought to mankind by a succession of spiritual luminaries have been the primary link between humanity and that ultimate reality, and have galvanized and refined mankind’s capacity to achieve spiritual success together with social progress. No serious attempt to set human affairs aright, to achieve world peace, can ignore religion. Man’s perception and practice of it are largely the stuff of history. An eminent historian described religion as a “faculty of human nature”. That the perversion of this faculty has contributed to much of the confusion in society and the conflicts in and between individuals can hardly be denied. But neither can any fair-minded observer discount the preponderating influence exerted by religion on the vital expressions of civilization. Furthermore, its indispensability to social order has repeatedly been demonstrated by its direct effect on laws and morality. Writing of religion as a social force, Bahá’u’lláh said: “Religion is the greatest of all means for the establishment of order in the world and for the peaceful contentment of all that dwell therein.” Referring to the eclipse or corruption of religion, he wrote: “Should the lamp of religion be obscured, chaos and confusion will ensue, and the lights of fairness, of justice, of tranquillity and peace cease to shine.” In an enumeration of such consequences the Bahá’í writings point out that the “perversion of human nature, the degradation of human conduct, the corruption and dissolution of human institutions, reveal themselves, under such circumstances, in their worst and most revolting aspects. Human character is debased, confidence is shaken, the nerves of discipline are relaxed, the voice of human conscience is stilled, the sense of decency and shame is obscured, conceptions of duty, of solidarity, of reciprocity and loyalty are distorted, and the very and practical approaches. A fresh look at the problem is required, entailing consultation with experts from a wide spectrum of disciplines, devoid of economic and ideological polemics, and involving the people directly affected in the decisions that must urgently be made. It is an issue that is bound up not only with the necessity for eliminating extremes of wealth and poverty but also with those spiritual verities the understanding of which can produce a new universal attitude. Fostering such an attitude is itself a major part of the solution. Unbridled nationalism, as distinguished from a sane and legitimate patriotism, must give way to a wider loyalty, to the love of humanity as a whole. Bahá’u’lláh’s statement is: “The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens.” The concept of world citizenship is a direct result of the contraction of the world into a single neighbourhood through scientific advances and of the indisputable interdependence of nations. Love of all the world’s peoples does not exclude love of one’s country. The advantage of the part in a world society is best served by promoting the advantage of the whole. Current international activities in various fields which nurture mutual affection and a sense of solidarity among peoples need greatly to be increased. Religious strife, throughout history, has been the cause of innumerable wars and conflicts, a major blight to progress, and is increasingly abhorrent to the people of all faiths and no faith. Followers of all religions must be willing to face the basic questions which this strife raises, and to arrive at clear answers. How are the differences between them to be resolved, both in theory and in practice? The challenge facing the religious leaders of mankind is to contemplate, with hearts filled with the spirit of compassion and a desire of the earth must needs attend it, and, participating in its deliberations, must consider such ways and means as will lay the foundations of the world’s Great Peace amongst men.” The courage, the resolution, the pure motive, the selfless love of one people for another—all the spiritual and moral qualities required for effecting this momentous step towards peace are focused on the will to act. And it is towards arousing the necessary volition that earnest consideration must be given to the reality of man, namely, his thought. To understand the relevance of this potent reality is also to appreciate the social necessity of actualizing its unique value through candid, dispassionate and cordial consultation, and of acting upon the results of this process. Bahá’u’lláh insistently drew attention to the virtues and indispensability of consultation for ordering human affairs. He said: “Consultation bestows greater awareness and transmutes conjecture into certitude. It is a shining light which, in a dark world, leads the way and guides. For everything there is and will continue to be a station of perfection and maturity. The maturity of the gift of understanding is made manifest through consultation.” The very attempt to achieve peace through the consultative action he proposed can release such a salutary spirit among the peoples of the earth that no power could resist the final, triumphal outcome. Concerning the proceedings for this world gathering, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, the son of Bahá’u’lláh and authorized interpreter of his teachings, offered these insights: “They must make the Cause of Peace the object of general consultation, and seek by every means in their power to establish a Union of the nations of the world. They must conclude a binding treaty and establish a covenant, the provisions of which shall be sound, inviolable and definite. They must proclaim it to all divine guidance in human history. Its existence is yet another convincing proof of the practicality of its Founder’s vision of a united world, another evidence that humanity can live as one global society, equal to whatever challenges its coming of age may entail. If the Bahá’í experience can contribute in whatever measure to reinforcing hope in the unity of the human race, we are happy to offer it as a model for study. In contemplating the supreme importance of the task now challenging the entire world, we bow our heads in humility before the awesome majesty of the divine Creator, Who out of His infinite love has created all humanity from the same stock; exalted the gem-like reality of man; honoured it with intellect and wisdom, nobility and immortality; and conferred upon man the “unique distinction and capacity to know Him and to love Him”, a capacity that “must needs be regarded as the generating impulse and the primary purpose underlying the whole of creation.” We hold firmly the conviction that all human beings have been created “to carry forward an ever-advancing civilization”; that “to act like the beasts of the field is unworthy of man”; that the virtues that befit human dignity are trustworthiness, forbearance, mercy, compassion and loving-kindness towards all peoples. We reaffirm the belief that the “potentialities inherent in the station of man, the full measure of his destiny on earth, the innate excellence of his reality, must all be manifested in this promised Day of God.” These are the motivations for our unshakeable faith that unity and peace are the attainable goal towards which humanity is striving. At this writing, the expectant voices of Bahá’ís can be heard despite the persecution they still endure in the land in which their Faith was born. By their example violent and disruptive phenomena associated with it testifies to the spiritual bankruptcy it represents. Indeed, one of the strangest and saddest features of the current outbreak of religious fanaticism is the extent to which, in each case, it is undermining not only the spiritual values which are conducive to the unity of mankind but also those unique moral victories won by the particular religion it purports to serve. However vital a force religion has been in the history of mankind, and however dramatic the current resurgence of militant religious fanaticism, religion and religious institutions have, for many decades, been viewed by increasing numbers of people as irrelevant to the major concerns of the modern world. In its place they have turned either to the hedonistic pursuit of material satisfactions or to the following of man-made ideologies designed to rescue society from the evident evils under which it groans. All too many of these ideologies, alas, instead of embracing the concept of the oneness of mankind and promoting the increase of concord among different peoples, have tended to deify the state, to subordinate the rest of mankind to one nation, race or class, to attempt to suppress all discussion and interchange of ideas, or to callously abandon starving millions to the operations of a market system that all too clearly is aggravating the plight of the majority of mankind, while enabling small sections to live in a condition of affluence scarcely dreamed of by our forebears. How tragic is the record of the substitute faiths that the worldly-wise of our age have created. In the massive disillusionment of entire populations who have been taught to worship at their altars can be read history’s irreversible verdict on their value. The fruits these doctrines have produced, after decades of an increasingly unrestrained exercise

Which widespread belief is seen as causing the most harm?

The belief that humans are inherenty hostile and aggressive.

ultimate reality, that unknowable essence of essences called God. The religions brought to mankind by a succession of spiritual luminaries have been the primary link between humanity and that ultimate reality, and have galvanized and refined mankind’s capacity to achieve spiritual success together with social progress. No serious attempt to set human affairs aright, to achieve world peace, can ignore religion. Man’s perception and practice of it are largely the stuff of history. An eminent historian described religion as a “faculty of human nature”. That the perversion of this faculty has contributed to much of the confusion in society and the conflicts in and between individuals can hardly be denied. But neither can any fair-minded observer discount the preponderating influence exerted by religion on the vital expressions of civilization. Furthermore, its indispensability to social order has repeatedly been demonstrated by its direct effect on laws and morality. Writing of religion as a social force, Bahá’u’lláh said: “Religion is the greatest of all means for the establishment of order in the world and for the peaceful contentment of all that dwell therein.” Referring to the eclipse or corruption of religion, he wrote: “Should the lamp of religion be obscured, chaos and confusion will ensue, and the lights of fairness, of justice, of tranquillity and peace cease to shine.” In an enumeration of such consequences the Bahá’í writings point out that the “perversion of human nature, the degradation of human conduct, the corruption and dissolution of human institutions, reveal themselves, under such circumstances, in their worst and most revolting aspects. Human character is debased, confidence is shaken, the nerves of discipline are relaxed, the voice of human conscience is stilled, the sense of decency and shame is obscured, conceptions of duty, of solidarity, of reciprocity and loyalty are distorted, and the very and practical approaches. A fresh look at the problem is required, entailing consultation with experts from a wide spectrum of disciplines, devoid of economic and ideological polemics, and involving the people directly affected in the decisions that must urgently be made. It is an issue that is bound up not only with the necessity for eliminating extremes of wealth and poverty but also with those spiritual verities the understanding of which can produce a new universal attitude. Fostering such an attitude is itself a major part of the solution. Unbridled nationalism, as distinguished from a sane and legitimate patriotism, must give way to a wider loyalty, to the love of humanity as a whole. Bahá’u’lláh’s statement is: “The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens.” The concept of world citizenship is a direct result of the contraction of the world into a single neighbourhood through scientific advances and of the indisputable interdependence of nations. Love of all the world’s peoples does not exclude love of one’s country. The advantage of the part in a world society is best served by promoting the advantage of the whole. Current international activities in various fields which nurture mutual affection and a sense of solidarity among peoples need greatly to be increased. Religious strife, throughout history, has been the cause of innumerable wars and conflicts, a major blight to progress, and is increasingly abhorrent to the people of all faiths and no faith. Followers of all religions must be willing to face the basic questions which this strife raises, and to arrive at clear answers. How are the differences between them to be resolved, both in theory and in practice? The challenge facing the religious leaders of mankind is to contemplate, with hearts filled with the spirit of compassion and a desire of the earth must needs attend it, and, participating in its deliberations, must consider such ways and means as will lay the foundations of the world’s Great Peace amongst men.” The courage, the resolution, the pure motive, the selfless love of one people for another—all the spiritual and moral qualities required for effecting this momentous step towards peace are focused on the will to act. And it is towards arousing the necessary volition that earnest consideration must be given to the reality of man, namely, his thought. To understand the relevance of this potent reality is also to appreciate the social necessity of actualizing its unique value through candid, dispassionate and cordial consultation, and of acting upon the results of this process. Bahá’u’lláh insistently drew attention to the virtues and indispensability of consultation for ordering human affairs. He said: “Consultation bestows greater awareness and transmutes conjecture into certitude. It is a shining light which, in a dark world, leads the way and guides. For everything there is and will continue to be a station of perfection and maturity. The maturity of the gift of understanding is made manifest through consultation.” The very attempt to achieve peace through the consultative action he proposed can release such a salutary spirit among the peoples of the earth that no power could resist the final, triumphal outcome. Concerning the proceedings for this world gathering, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, the son of Bahá’u’lláh and authorized interpreter of his teachings, offered these insights: “They must make the Cause of Peace the object of general consultation, and seek by every means in their power to establish a Union of the nations of the world. They must conclude a binding treaty and establish a covenant, the provisions of which shall be sound, inviolable and definite. They must proclaim it to all violent and disruptive phenomena associated with it testifies to the spiritual bankruptcy it represents. Indeed, one of the strangest and saddest features of the current outbreak of religious fanaticism is the extent to which, in each case, it is undermining not only the spiritual values which are conducive to the unity of mankind but also those unique moral victories won by the particular religion it purports to serve. However vital a force religion has been in the history of mankind, and however dramatic the current resurgence of militant religious fanaticism, religion and religious institutions have, for many decades, been viewed by increasing numbers of people as irrelevant to the major concerns of the modern world. In its place they have turned either to the hedonistic pursuit of material satisfactions or to the following of man-made ideologies designed to rescue society from the evident evils under which it groans. All too many of these ideologies, alas, instead of embracing the concept of the oneness of mankind and promoting the increase of concord among different peoples, have tended to deify the state, to subordinate the rest of mankind to one nation, race or class, to attempt to suppress all discussion and interchange of ideas, or to callously abandon starving millions to the operations of a market system that all too clearly is aggravating the plight of the majority of mankind, while enabling small sections to live in a condition of affluence scarcely dreamed of by our forebears. How tragic is the record of the substitute faiths that the worldly-wise of our age have created. In the massive disillusionment of entire populations who have been taught to worship at their altars can be read history’s irreversible verdict on their value. The fruits these doctrines have produced, after decades of an increasingly unrestrained exercise The Promise of World Peace by Universal House of Justice Edition 1, (September 2006) 2. The Content may not be modified or altered in any way except to change the font or appearance; 3. The Content must be used solely for a non-commercial purpose. For permission to publish, transmit, display or otherwise use the Content for any commercial purpose, please contact us (http://reference.bahai.org/en/contact.html). Baha’i Terms of Use I II III IV To the Peoples of the World: The Great Peace towards which people of good will throughout the centuries have inclined their hearts, of which seers and poets for countless generations have expressed their vision, and for which from age to age the sacred scriptures of mankind have constantly held the promise, is now at long last within the reach of the nations. For the first time in history it is possible for everyone to view the entire planet, with all its myriad diversified peoples, in one perspective. World peace is not only possible but inevitable. It is the next stage in the evolution of this planet—in the words of one great thinker, “the planetization of mankind”. Whether peace is to be reached only after unimaginable horrors precipitated by humanity’s stubborn clinging to old patterns of behaviour, or is to be embraced now by an act of consultative will, is the choice before all who inhabit the earth. At this critical juncture when the intractable problems confronting nations have been fused into one common concern for the whole world, failure to stem the tide of conflict and disorder would be unconscionably irresponsible. Among the favourable signs are the steadily growing strength of the steps towards world order taken initially near the beginning of this century in the creation of the League of Nations, succeeded by the more broadly based United

How does international governance let the world down?

By its' inability to do away with war, anarchy, terrorism and unstable economies.

and practical approaches. A fresh look at the problem is required, entailing consultation with experts from a wide spectrum of disciplines, devoid of economic and ideological polemics, and involving the people directly affected in the decisions that must urgently be made. It is an issue that is bound up not only with the necessity for eliminating extremes of wealth and poverty but also with those spiritual verities the understanding of which can produce a new universal attitude. Fostering such an attitude is itself a major part of the solution. Unbridled nationalism, as distinguished from a sane and legitimate patriotism, must give way to a wider loyalty, to the love of humanity as a whole. Bahá’u’lláh’s statement is: “The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens.” The concept of world citizenship is a direct result of the contraction of the world into a single neighbourhood through scientific advances and of the indisputable interdependence of nations. Love of all the world’s peoples does not exclude love of one’s country. The advantage of the part in a world society is best served by promoting the advantage of the whole. Current international activities in various fields which nurture mutual affection and a sense of solidarity among peoples need greatly to be increased. Religious strife, throughout history, has been the cause of innumerable wars and conflicts, a major blight to progress, and is increasingly abhorrent to the people of all faiths and no faith. Followers of all religions must be willing to face the basic questions which this strife raises, and to arrive at clear answers. How are the differences between them to be resolved, both in theory and in practice? The challenge facing the religious leaders of mankind is to contemplate, with hearts filled with the spirit of compassion and a desire of the earth must needs attend it, and, participating in its deliberations, must consider such ways and means as will lay the foundations of the world’s Great Peace amongst men.” The courage, the resolution, the pure motive, the selfless love of one people for another—all the spiritual and moral qualities required for effecting this momentous step towards peace are focused on the will to act. And it is towards arousing the necessary volition that earnest consideration must be given to the reality of man, namely, his thought. To understand the relevance of this potent reality is also to appreciate the social necessity of actualizing its unique value through candid, dispassionate and cordial consultation, and of acting upon the results of this process. Bahá’u’lláh insistently drew attention to the virtues and indispensability of consultation for ordering human affairs. He said: “Consultation bestows greater awareness and transmutes conjecture into certitude. It is a shining light which, in a dark world, leads the way and guides. For everything there is and will continue to be a station of perfection and maturity. The maturity of the gift of understanding is made manifest through consultation.” The very attempt to achieve peace through the consultative action he proposed can release such a salutary spirit among the peoples of the earth that no power could resist the final, triumphal outcome. Concerning the proceedings for this world gathering, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, the son of Bahá’u’lláh and authorized interpreter of his teachings, offered these insights: “They must make the Cause of Peace the object of general consultation, and seek by every means in their power to establish a Union of the nations of the world. They must conclude a binding treaty and establish a covenant, the provisions of which shall be sound, inviolable and definite. They must proclaim it to all ultimate reality, that unknowable essence of essences called God. The religions brought to mankind by a succession of spiritual luminaries have been the primary link between humanity and that ultimate reality, and have galvanized and refined mankind’s capacity to achieve spiritual success together with social progress. No serious attempt to set human affairs aright, to achieve world peace, can ignore religion. Man’s perception and practice of it are largely the stuff of history. An eminent historian described religion as a “faculty of human nature”. That the perversion of this faculty has contributed to much of the confusion in society and the conflicts in and between individuals can hardly be denied. But neither can any fair-minded observer discount the preponderating influence exerted by religion on the vital expressions of civilization. Furthermore, its indispensability to social order has repeatedly been demonstrated by its direct effect on laws and morality. Writing of religion as a social force, Bahá’u’lláh said: “Religion is the greatest of all means for the establishment of order in the world and for the peaceful contentment of all that dwell therein.” Referring to the eclipse or corruption of religion, he wrote: “Should the lamp of religion be obscured, chaos and confusion will ensue, and the lights of fairness, of justice, of tranquillity and peace cease to shine.” In an enumeration of such consequences the Bahá’í writings point out that the “perversion of human nature, the degradation of human conduct, the corruption and dissolution of human institutions, reveal themselves, under such circumstances, in their worst and most revolting aspects. Human character is debased, confidence is shaken, the nerves of discipline are relaxed, the voice of human conscience is stilled, the sense of decency and shame is obscured, conceptions of duty, of solidarity, of reciprocity and loyalty are distorted, and the very standard education of every child. A fundamental lack of communication between peoples seriously undermines efforts towards world peace. Adopting an international auxiliary language would go far to resolving this problem and necessitates the most urgent attention. Two points bear emphasizing in all these issues. One is that the abolition of war is not simply a matter of signing treaties and protocols; it is a complex task requiring a new level of commitment to resolving issues not customarily associated with the pursuit of peace. Based on political agreements alone, the idea of collective security is a chimera. The other point is that the primary challenge in dealing with issues of peace is to raise the context to the level of principle, as distinct from pure pragmatism. For, in essence, peace stems from an inner state supported by a spiritual or moral attitude, and it is chiefly in evoking this attitude that the possibility of enduring solutions can be found. There are spiritual principles, or what some call human values, by which solutions can be found for every social problem. Any well-intentioned group can in a general sense devise practical solutions to its problems, but good intentions and practical knowledge are usually not enough. The essential merit of spiritual principle is that it not only presents a perspective which harmonizes with that which is immanent in human nature, it also induces an attitude, a dynamic, a will, an aspiration, which facilitate the discovery and implementation of practical measures. Leaders of governments and all in authority would be well served in their efforts to solve problems if they would first seek to identify the principles involved and then be guided by them. The primary question to be resolved is how the present world, with its entrenched pattern of conflict, can change to a The Promise of World Peace by Universal House of Justice Edition 1, (September 2006) 2. The Content may not be modified or altered in any way except to change the font or appearance; 3. The Content must be used solely for a non-commercial purpose. For permission to publish, transmit, display or otherwise use the Content for any commercial purpose, please contact us (http://reference.bahai.org/en/contact.html). Baha’i Terms of Use I II III IV To the Peoples of the World: The Great Peace towards which people of good will throughout the centuries have inclined their hearts, of which seers and poets for countless generations have expressed their vision, and for which from age to age the sacred scriptures of mankind have constantly held the promise, is now at long last within the reach of the nations. For the first time in history it is possible for everyone to view the entire planet, with all its myriad diversified peoples, in one perspective. World peace is not only possible but inevitable. It is the next stage in the evolution of this planet—in the words of one great thinker, “the planetization of mankind”. Whether peace is to be reached only after unimaginable horrors precipitated by humanity’s stubborn clinging to old patterns of behaviour, or is to be embraced now by an act of consultative will, is the choice before all who inhabit the earth. At this critical juncture when the intractable problems confronting nations have been fused into one common concern for the whole world, failure to stem the tide of conflict and disorder would be unconscionably irresponsible. Among the favourable signs are the steadily growing strength of the steps towards world order taken initially near the beginning of this century in the creation of the League of Nations, succeeded by the more broadly based United

What is required for peace to occur?

Religion.

ultimate reality, that unknowable essence of essences called God. The religions brought to mankind by a succession of spiritual luminaries have been the primary link between humanity and that ultimate reality, and have galvanized and refined mankind’s capacity to achieve spiritual success together with social progress. No serious attempt to set human affairs aright, to achieve world peace, can ignore religion. Man’s perception and practice of it are largely the stuff of history. An eminent historian described religion as a “faculty of human nature”. That the perversion of this faculty has contributed to much of the confusion in society and the conflicts in and between individuals can hardly be denied. But neither can any fair-minded observer discount the preponderating influence exerted by religion on the vital expressions of civilization. Furthermore, its indispensability to social order has repeatedly been demonstrated by its direct effect on laws and morality. Writing of religion as a social force, Bahá’u’lláh said: “Religion is the greatest of all means for the establishment of order in the world and for the peaceful contentment of all that dwell therein.” Referring to the eclipse or corruption of religion, he wrote: “Should the lamp of religion be obscured, chaos and confusion will ensue, and the lights of fairness, of justice, of tranquillity and peace cease to shine.” In an enumeration of such consequences the Bahá’í writings point out that the “perversion of human nature, the degradation of human conduct, the corruption and dissolution of human institutions, reveal themselves, under such circumstances, in their worst and most revolting aspects. Human character is debased, confidence is shaken, the nerves of discipline are relaxed, the voice of human conscience is stilled, the sense of decency and shame is obscured, conceptions of duty, of solidarity, of reciprocity and loyalty are distorted, and the very and practical approaches. A fresh look at the problem is required, entailing consultation with experts from a wide spectrum of disciplines, devoid of economic and ideological polemics, and involving the people directly affected in the decisions that must urgently be made. It is an issue that is bound up not only with the necessity for eliminating extremes of wealth and poverty but also with those spiritual verities the understanding of which can produce a new universal attitude. Fostering such an attitude is itself a major part of the solution. Unbridled nationalism, as distinguished from a sane and legitimate patriotism, must give way to a wider loyalty, to the love of humanity as a whole. Bahá’u’lláh’s statement is: “The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens.” The concept of world citizenship is a direct result of the contraction of the world into a single neighbourhood through scientific advances and of the indisputable interdependence of nations. Love of all the world’s peoples does not exclude love of one’s country. The advantage of the part in a world society is best served by promoting the advantage of the whole. Current international activities in various fields which nurture mutual affection and a sense of solidarity among peoples need greatly to be increased. Religious strife, throughout history, has been the cause of innumerable wars and conflicts, a major blight to progress, and is increasingly abhorrent to the people of all faiths and no faith. Followers of all religions must be willing to face the basic questions which this strife raises, and to arrive at clear answers. How are the differences between them to be resolved, both in theory and in practice? The challenge facing the religious leaders of mankind is to contemplate, with hearts filled with the spirit of compassion and a desire of the earth must needs attend it, and, participating in its deliberations, must consider such ways and means as will lay the foundations of the world’s Great Peace amongst men.” The courage, the resolution, the pure motive, the selfless love of one people for another—all the spiritual and moral qualities required for effecting this momentous step towards peace are focused on the will to act. And it is towards arousing the necessary volition that earnest consideration must be given to the reality of man, namely, his thought. To understand the relevance of this potent reality is also to appreciate the social necessity of actualizing its unique value through candid, dispassionate and cordial consultation, and of acting upon the results of this process. Bahá’u’lláh insistently drew attention to the virtues and indispensability of consultation for ordering human affairs. He said: “Consultation bestows greater awareness and transmutes conjecture into certitude. It is a shining light which, in a dark world, leads the way and guides. For everything there is and will continue to be a station of perfection and maturity. The maturity of the gift of understanding is made manifest through consultation.” The very attempt to achieve peace through the consultative action he proposed can release such a salutary spirit among the peoples of the earth that no power could resist the final, triumphal outcome. Concerning the proceedings for this world gathering, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, the son of Bahá’u’lláh and authorized interpreter of his teachings, offered these insights: “They must make the Cause of Peace the object of general consultation, and seek by every means in their power to establish a Union of the nations of the world. They must conclude a binding treaty and establish a covenant, the provisions of which shall be sound, inviolable and definite. They must proclaim it to all The Promise of World Peace by Universal House of Justice Edition 1, (September 2006) 2. The Content may not be modified or altered in any way except to change the font or appearance; 3. The Content must be used solely for a non-commercial purpose. For permission to publish, transmit, display or otherwise use the Content for any commercial purpose, please contact us (http://reference.bahai.org/en/contact.html). Baha’i Terms of Use I II III IV To the Peoples of the World: The Great Peace towards which people of good will throughout the centuries have inclined their hearts, of which seers and poets for countless generations have expressed their vision, and for which from age to age the sacred scriptures of mankind have constantly held the promise, is now at long last within the reach of the nations. For the first time in history it is possible for everyone to view the entire planet, with all its myriad diversified peoples, in one perspective. World peace is not only possible but inevitable. It is the next stage in the evolution of this planet—in the words of one great thinker, “the planetization of mankind”. Whether peace is to be reached only after unimaginable horrors precipitated by humanity’s stubborn clinging to old patterns of behaviour, or is to be embraced now by an act of consultative will, is the choice before all who inhabit the earth. At this critical juncture when the intractable problems confronting nations have been fused into one common concern for the whole world, failure to stem the tide of conflict and disorder would be unconscionably irresponsible. Among the favourable signs are the steadily growing strength of the steps towards world order taken initially near the beginning of this century in the creation of the League of Nations, succeeded by the more broadly based United of steadfast hope, they bear witness to the belief that the imminent realization of this age-old dream of peace is now, by virtue of the transforming effects of Bahá’u’lláh’s revelation, invested with the force of divine authority. Thus we convey to you not only a vision in words: we summon the power of deeds of faith and sacrifice; we convey the anxious plea of our co-religionists everywhere for peace and unity. We join with all who are the victims of aggression, all who yearn for an end to conflict and contention, all whose devotion to principles of peace and world order promotes the ennobling purposes for which humanity was called into being by an all-loving Creator. In the earnestness of our desire to impart to you the fervour of our hope and the depth of our confidence, we cite the emphatic promise of Bahá’u’lláh: “These fruitless strifes, these ruinous wars shall pass away, and the ‘Most Great Peace’ shall come.”

How does the U.H.o.J. see religious strife occuring?

Through a combination of human negligence and interpretive error of religion.

ultimate reality, that unknowable essence of essences called God. The religions brought to mankind by a succession of spiritual luminaries have been the primary link between humanity and that ultimate reality, and have galvanized and refined mankind’s capacity to achieve spiritual success together with social progress. No serious attempt to set human affairs aright, to achieve world peace, can ignore religion. Man’s perception and practice of it are largely the stuff of history. An eminent historian described religion as a “faculty of human nature”. That the perversion of this faculty has contributed to much of the confusion in society and the conflicts in and between individuals can hardly be denied. But neither can any fair-minded observer discount the preponderating influence exerted by religion on the vital expressions of civilization. Furthermore, its indispensability to social order has repeatedly been demonstrated by its direct effect on laws and morality. Writing of religion as a social force, Bahá’u’lláh said: “Religion is the greatest of all means for the establishment of order in the world and for the peaceful contentment of all that dwell therein.” Referring to the eclipse or corruption of religion, he wrote: “Should the lamp of religion be obscured, chaos and confusion will ensue, and the lights of fairness, of justice, of tranquillity and peace cease to shine.” In an enumeration of such consequences the Bahá’í writings point out that the “perversion of human nature, the degradation of human conduct, the corruption and dissolution of human institutions, reveal themselves, under such circumstances, in their worst and most revolting aspects. Human character is debased, confidence is shaken, the nerves of discipline are relaxed, the voice of human conscience is stilled, the sense of decency and shame is obscured, conceptions of duty, of solidarity, of reciprocity and loyalty are distorted, and the very violent and disruptive phenomena associated with it testifies to the spiritual bankruptcy it represents. Indeed, one of the strangest and saddest features of the current outbreak of religious fanaticism is the extent to which, in each case, it is undermining not only the spiritual values which are conducive to the unity of mankind but also those unique moral victories won by the particular religion it purports to serve. However vital a force religion has been in the history of mankind, and however dramatic the current resurgence of militant religious fanaticism, religion and religious institutions have, for many decades, been viewed by increasing numbers of people as irrelevant to the major concerns of the modern world. In its place they have turned either to the hedonistic pursuit of material satisfactions or to the following of man-made ideologies designed to rescue society from the evident evils under which it groans. All too many of these ideologies, alas, instead of embracing the concept of the oneness of mankind and promoting the increase of concord among different peoples, have tended to deify the state, to subordinate the rest of mankind to one nation, race or class, to attempt to suppress all discussion and interchange of ideas, or to callously abandon starving millions to the operations of a market system that all too clearly is aggravating the plight of the majority of mankind, while enabling small sections to live in a condition of affluence scarcely dreamed of by our forebears. How tragic is the record of the substitute faiths that the worldly-wise of our age have created. In the massive disillusionment of entire populations who have been taught to worship at their altars can be read history’s irreversible verdict on their value. The fruits these doctrines have produced, after decades of an increasingly unrestrained exercise and practical approaches. A fresh look at the problem is required, entailing consultation with experts from a wide spectrum of disciplines, devoid of economic and ideological polemics, and involving the people directly affected in the decisions that must urgently be made. It is an issue that is bound up not only with the necessity for eliminating extremes of wealth and poverty but also with those spiritual verities the understanding of which can produce a new universal attitude. Fostering such an attitude is itself a major part of the solution. Unbridled nationalism, as distinguished from a sane and legitimate patriotism, must give way to a wider loyalty, to the love of humanity as a whole. Bahá’u’lláh’s statement is: “The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens.” The concept of world citizenship is a direct result of the contraction of the world into a single neighbourhood through scientific advances and of the indisputable interdependence of nations. Love of all the world’s peoples does not exclude love of one’s country. The advantage of the part in a world society is best served by promoting the advantage of the whole. Current international activities in various fields which nurture mutual affection and a sense of solidarity among peoples need greatly to be increased. Religious strife, throughout history, has been the cause of innumerable wars and conflicts, a major blight to progress, and is increasingly abhorrent to the people of all faiths and no faith. Followers of all religions must be willing to face the basic questions which this strife raises, and to arrive at clear answers. How are the differences between them to be resolved, both in theory and in practice? The challenge facing the religious leaders of mankind is to contemplate, with hearts filled with the spirit of compassion and a desire The Promise of World Peace by Universal House of Justice Edition 1, (September 2006) 2. The Content may not be modified or altered in any way except to change the font or appearance; 3. The Content must be used solely for a non-commercial purpose. For permission to publish, transmit, display or otherwise use the Content for any commercial purpose, please contact us (http://reference.bahai.org/en/contact.html). Baha’i Terms of Use I II III IV To the Peoples of the World: The Great Peace towards which people of good will throughout the centuries have inclined their hearts, of which seers and poets for countless generations have expressed their vision, and for which from age to age the sacred scriptures of mankind have constantly held the promise, is now at long last within the reach of the nations. For the first time in history it is possible for everyone to view the entire planet, with all its myriad diversified peoples, in one perspective. World peace is not only possible but inevitable. It is the next stage in the evolution of this planet—in the words of one great thinker, “the planetization of mankind”. Whether peace is to be reached only after unimaginable horrors precipitated by humanity’s stubborn clinging to old patterns of behaviour, or is to be embraced now by an act of consultative will, is the choice before all who inhabit the earth. At this critical juncture when the intractable problems confronting nations have been fused into one common concern for the whole world, failure to stem the tide of conflict and disorder would be unconscionably irresponsible. Among the favourable signs are the steadily growing strength of the steps towards world order taken initially near the beginning of this century in the creation of the League of Nations, succeeded by the more broadly based United divine guidance in human history. Its existence is yet another convincing proof of the practicality of its Founder’s vision of a united world, another evidence that humanity can live as one global society, equal to whatever challenges its coming of age may entail. If the Bahá’í experience can contribute in whatever measure to reinforcing hope in the unity of the human race, we are happy to offer it as a model for study. In contemplating the supreme importance of the task now challenging the entire world, we bow our heads in humility before the awesome majesty of the divine Creator, Who out of His infinite love has created all humanity from the same stock; exalted the gem-like reality of man; honoured it with intellect and wisdom, nobility and immortality; and conferred upon man the “unique distinction and capacity to know Him and to love Him”, a capacity that “must needs be regarded as the generating impulse and the primary purpose underlying the whole of creation.” We hold firmly the conviction that all human beings have been created “to carry forward an ever-advancing civilization”; that “to act like the beasts of the field is unworthy of man”; that the virtues that befit human dignity are trustworthiness, forbearance, mercy, compassion and loving-kindness towards all peoples. We reaffirm the belief that the “potentialities inherent in the station of man, the full measure of his destiny on earth, the innate excellence of his reality, must all be manifested in this promised Day of God.” These are the motivations for our unshakeable faith that unity and peace are the attainable goal towards which humanity is striving. At this writing, the expectant voices of Bahá’ís can be heard despite the persecution they still endure in the land in which their Faith was born. By their example

Why does interpretive error harm religious faith?

It separates faith from reason.

ultimate reality, that unknowable essence of essences called God. The religions brought to mankind by a succession of spiritual luminaries have been the primary link between humanity and that ultimate reality, and have galvanized and refined mankind’s capacity to achieve spiritual success together with social progress. No serious attempt to set human affairs aright, to achieve world peace, can ignore religion. Man’s perception and practice of it are largely the stuff of history. An eminent historian described religion as a “faculty of human nature”. That the perversion of this faculty has contributed to much of the confusion in society and the conflicts in and between individuals can hardly be denied. But neither can any fair-minded observer discount the preponderating influence exerted by religion on the vital expressions of civilization. Furthermore, its indispensability to social order has repeatedly been demonstrated by its direct effect on laws and morality. Writing of religion as a social force, Bahá’u’lláh said: “Religion is the greatest of all means for the establishment of order in the world and for the peaceful contentment of all that dwell therein.” Referring to the eclipse or corruption of religion, he wrote: “Should the lamp of religion be obscured, chaos and confusion will ensue, and the lights of fairness, of justice, of tranquillity and peace cease to shine.” In an enumeration of such consequences the Bahá’í writings point out that the “perversion of human nature, the degradation of human conduct, the corruption and dissolution of human institutions, reveal themselves, under such circumstances, in their worst and most revolting aspects. Human character is debased, confidence is shaken, the nerves of discipline are relaxed, the voice of human conscience is stilled, the sense of decency and shame is obscured, conceptions of duty, of solidarity, of reciprocity and loyalty are distorted, and the very and practical approaches. A fresh look at the problem is required, entailing consultation with experts from a wide spectrum of disciplines, devoid of economic and ideological polemics, and involving the people directly affected in the decisions that must urgently be made. It is an issue that is bound up not only with the necessity for eliminating extremes of wealth and poverty but also with those spiritual verities the understanding of which can produce a new universal attitude. Fostering such an attitude is itself a major part of the solution. Unbridled nationalism, as distinguished from a sane and legitimate patriotism, must give way to a wider loyalty, to the love of humanity as a whole. Bahá’u’lláh’s statement is: “The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens.” The concept of world citizenship is a direct result of the contraction of the world into a single neighbourhood through scientific advances and of the indisputable interdependence of nations. Love of all the world’s peoples does not exclude love of one’s country. The advantage of the part in a world society is best served by promoting the advantage of the whole. Current international activities in various fields which nurture mutual affection and a sense of solidarity among peoples need greatly to be increased. Religious strife, throughout history, has been the cause of innumerable wars and conflicts, a major blight to progress, and is increasingly abhorrent to the people of all faiths and no faith. Followers of all religions must be willing to face the basic questions which this strife raises, and to arrive at clear answers. How are the differences between them to be resolved, both in theory and in practice? The challenge facing the religious leaders of mankind is to contemplate, with hearts filled with the spirit of compassion and a desire divine guidance in human history. Its existence is yet another convincing proof of the practicality of its Founder’s vision of a united world, another evidence that humanity can live as one global society, equal to whatever challenges its coming of age may entail. If the Bahá’í experience can contribute in whatever measure to reinforcing hope in the unity of the human race, we are happy to offer it as a model for study. In contemplating the supreme importance of the task now challenging the entire world, we bow our heads in humility before the awesome majesty of the divine Creator, Who out of His infinite love has created all humanity from the same stock; exalted the gem-like reality of man; honoured it with intellect and wisdom, nobility and immortality; and conferred upon man the “unique distinction and capacity to know Him and to love Him”, a capacity that “must needs be regarded as the generating impulse and the primary purpose underlying the whole of creation.” We hold firmly the conviction that all human beings have been created “to carry forward an ever-advancing civilization”; that “to act like the beasts of the field is unworthy of man”; that the virtues that befit human dignity are trustworthiness, forbearance, mercy, compassion and loving-kindness towards all peoples. We reaffirm the belief that the “potentialities inherent in the station of man, the full measure of his destiny on earth, the innate excellence of his reality, must all be manifested in this promised Day of God.” These are the motivations for our unshakeable faith that unity and peace are the attainable goal towards which humanity is striving. At this writing, the expectant voices of Bahá’ís can be heard despite the persecution they still endure in the land in which their Faith was born. By their example violent and disruptive phenomena associated with it testifies to the spiritual bankruptcy it represents. Indeed, one of the strangest and saddest features of the current outbreak of religious fanaticism is the extent to which, in each case, it is undermining not only the spiritual values which are conducive to the unity of mankind but also those unique moral victories won by the particular religion it purports to serve. However vital a force religion has been in the history of mankind, and however dramatic the current resurgence of militant religious fanaticism, religion and religious institutions have, for many decades, been viewed by increasing numbers of people as irrelevant to the major concerns of the modern world. In its place they have turned either to the hedonistic pursuit of material satisfactions or to the following of man-made ideologies designed to rescue society from the evident evils under which it groans. All too many of these ideologies, alas, instead of embracing the concept of the oneness of mankind and promoting the increase of concord among different peoples, have tended to deify the state, to subordinate the rest of mankind to one nation, race or class, to attempt to suppress all discussion and interchange of ideas, or to callously abandon starving millions to the operations of a market system that all too clearly is aggravating the plight of the majority of mankind, while enabling small sections to live in a condition of affluence scarcely dreamed of by our forebears. How tragic is the record of the substitute faiths that the worldly-wise of our age have created. In the massive disillusionment of entire populations who have been taught to worship at their altars can be read history’s irreversible verdict on their value. The fruits these doctrines have produced, after decades of an increasingly unrestrained exercise The Promise of World Peace by Universal House of Justice Edition 1, (September 2006) 2. The Content may not be modified or altered in any way except to change the font or appearance; 3. The Content must be used solely for a non-commercial purpose. For permission to publish, transmit, display or otherwise use the Content for any commercial purpose, please contact us (http://reference.bahai.org/en/contact.html). Baha’i Terms of Use I II III IV To the Peoples of the World: The Great Peace towards which people of good will throughout the centuries have inclined their hearts, of which seers and poets for countless generations have expressed their vision, and for which from age to age the sacred scriptures of mankind have constantly held the promise, is now at long last within the reach of the nations. For the first time in history it is possible for everyone to view the entire planet, with all its myriad diversified peoples, in one perspective. World peace is not only possible but inevitable. It is the next stage in the evolution of this planet—in the words of one great thinker, “the planetization of mankind”. Whether peace is to be reached only after unimaginable horrors precipitated by humanity’s stubborn clinging to old patterns of behaviour, or is to be embraced now by an act of consultative will, is the choice before all who inhabit the earth. At this critical juncture when the intractable problems confronting nations have been fused into one common concern for the whole world, failure to stem the tide of conflict and disorder would be unconscionably irresponsible. Among the favourable signs are the steadily growing strength of the steps towards world order taken initially near the beginning of this century in the creation of the League of Nations, succeeded by the more broadly based United

What is the largest disparity?

Between the rich and the poor.

ultimate reality, that unknowable essence of essences called God. The religions brought to mankind by a succession of spiritual luminaries have been the primary link between humanity and that ultimate reality, and have galvanized and refined mankind’s capacity to achieve spiritual success together with social progress. No serious attempt to set human affairs aright, to achieve world peace, can ignore religion. Man’s perception and practice of it are largely the stuff of history. An eminent historian described religion as a “faculty of human nature”. That the perversion of this faculty has contributed to much of the confusion in society and the conflicts in and between individuals can hardly be denied. But neither can any fair-minded observer discount the preponderating influence exerted by religion on the vital expressions of civilization. Furthermore, its indispensability to social order has repeatedly been demonstrated by its direct effect on laws and morality. Writing of religion as a social force, Bahá’u’lláh said: “Religion is the greatest of all means for the establishment of order in the world and for the peaceful contentment of all that dwell therein.” Referring to the eclipse or corruption of religion, he wrote: “Should the lamp of religion be obscured, chaos and confusion will ensue, and the lights of fairness, of justice, of tranquillity and peace cease to shine.” In an enumeration of such consequences the Bahá’í writings point out that the “perversion of human nature, the degradation of human conduct, the corruption and dissolution of human institutions, reveal themselves, under such circumstances, in their worst and most revolting aspects. Human character is debased, confidence is shaken, the nerves of discipline are relaxed, the voice of human conscience is stilled, the sense of decency and shame is obscured, conceptions of duty, of solidarity, of reciprocity and loyalty are distorted, and the very and practical approaches. A fresh look at the problem is required, entailing consultation with experts from a wide spectrum of disciplines, devoid of economic and ideological polemics, and involving the people directly affected in the decisions that must urgently be made. It is an issue that is bound up not only with the necessity for eliminating extremes of wealth and poverty but also with those spiritual verities the understanding of which can produce a new universal attitude. Fostering such an attitude is itself a major part of the solution. Unbridled nationalism, as distinguished from a sane and legitimate patriotism, must give way to a wider loyalty, to the love of humanity as a whole. Bahá’u’lláh’s statement is: “The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens.” The concept of world citizenship is a direct result of the contraction of the world into a single neighbourhood through scientific advances and of the indisputable interdependence of nations. Love of all the world’s peoples does not exclude love of one’s country. The advantage of the part in a world society is best served by promoting the advantage of the whole. Current international activities in various fields which nurture mutual affection and a sense of solidarity among peoples need greatly to be increased. Religious strife, throughout history, has been the cause of innumerable wars and conflicts, a major blight to progress, and is increasingly abhorrent to the people of all faiths and no faith. Followers of all religions must be willing to face the basic questions which this strife raises, and to arrive at clear answers. How are the differences between them to be resolved, both in theory and in practice? The challenge facing the religious leaders of mankind is to contemplate, with hearts filled with the spirit of compassion and a desire divine guidance in human history. Its existence is yet another convincing proof of the practicality of its Founder’s vision of a united world, another evidence that humanity can live as one global society, equal to whatever challenges its coming of age may entail. If the Bahá’í experience can contribute in whatever measure to reinforcing hope in the unity of the human race, we are happy to offer it as a model for study. In contemplating the supreme importance of the task now challenging the entire world, we bow our heads in humility before the awesome majesty of the divine Creator, Who out of His infinite love has created all humanity from the same stock; exalted the gem-like reality of man; honoured it with intellect and wisdom, nobility and immortality; and conferred upon man the “unique distinction and capacity to know Him and to love Him”, a capacity that “must needs be regarded as the generating impulse and the primary purpose underlying the whole of creation.” We hold firmly the conviction that all human beings have been created “to carry forward an ever-advancing civilization”; that “to act like the beasts of the field is unworthy of man”; that the virtues that befit human dignity are trustworthiness, forbearance, mercy, compassion and loving-kindness towards all peoples. We reaffirm the belief that the “potentialities inherent in the station of man, the full measure of his destiny on earth, the innate excellence of his reality, must all be manifested in this promised Day of God.” These are the motivations for our unshakeable faith that unity and peace are the attainable goal towards which humanity is striving. At this writing, the expectant voices of Bahá’ís can be heard despite the persecution they still endure in the land in which their Faith was born. By their example maturity, must abandon this fetish, recognize the oneness and wholeness of human relationships, and establish once for all the machinery that can best incarnate this fundamental principle of its life.” All contemporary forces of change validate this view. The proofs can be discerned in the many examples already cited of the favourable signs towards world peace in current international movements and developments. The army of men and women, drawn from virtually every culture, race and nation on earth, who serve the multifarious agencies of the United Nations, represent a planetary “civil service” whose impressive accomplishments are indicative of the degree of co-operation that can be attained even under discouraging conditions. An urge towards unity, like a spiritual springtime, struggles to express itself through countless international congresses that bring together people from a vast array of disciplines. It motivates appeals for international projects involving children and youth. Indeed, it is the real source of the remarkable movement towards ecumenism by which members of historically antagonistic religions and sects seem irresistibly drawn towards one another. Together with the opposing tendency to warfare and self-aggrandizement against which it ceaselessly struggles, the drive towards world unity is one of the dominant, pervasive features of life on the planet during the closing years of the twentieth century. The experience of the Bahá’í community may be seen as an example of this enlarging unity. It is a community of some three to four million people drawn from many nations, cultures, classes and creeds, engaged in a wide range of activities serving the spiritual, social and economic needs of the peoples of many lands. It is a single social organism, representative of the diversity of the human family, conducting its affairs through a system of commonly accepted consultative principles, and cherishing equally all the great outpourings of world in which harmony and co-operation will prevail. World order can be founded only on an unshakeable consciousness of the oneness of mankind, a spiritual truth which all the human sciences confirm. Anthropology, physiology, psychology, recognize only one human species, albeit infinitely varied in the secondary aspects of life. Recognition of this truth requires abandonment of prejudice—prejudice of every kind—race, class, colour, creed, nation, sex, degree of material civilization, everything which enables people to consider themselves superior to others. Acceptance of the oneness of mankind is the first fundamental prerequisite for reorganization and administration of the world as one country, the home of humankind. Universal acceptance of this spiritual principle is essential to any successful attempt to establish world peace. It should therefore be universally proclaimed, taught in schools, and constantly asserted in every nation as preparation for the organic change in the structure of society which it implies. In the Bahá’í view, recognition of the oneness of mankind “calls for no less than the reconstruction and the demilitarization of the whole civilized world—a world organically unified in all the essential aspects of its life, its political machinery, its spiritual aspiration, its trade and finance, its script and language, and yet infinite in the diversity of the national characteristics of its federated units.” Elaborating the implications of this pivotal principle, Shoghi Effendi, the Guardian of the Bahá’í Faith, commented in 1931 that: “Far from aiming at the subversion of the existing foundations of society, it seeks to broaden its basis, to remold its institutions in a manner consonant with the needs of an ever-changing world. It can conflict with no legitimate allegiances, nor can it undermine essential loyalties. Its purpose is neither to stifle the flame of a sane and intelligent patriotism in men’s hearts, nor to abolish the system

What sort of discrimination afflicts the world?

Race, religious, and gender discrimination.

ultimate reality, that unknowable essence of essences called God. The religions brought to mankind by a succession of spiritual luminaries have been the primary link between humanity and that ultimate reality, and have galvanized and refined mankind’s capacity to achieve spiritual success together with social progress. No serious attempt to set human affairs aright, to achieve world peace, can ignore religion. Man’s perception and practice of it are largely the stuff of history. An eminent historian described religion as a “faculty of human nature”. That the perversion of this faculty has contributed to much of the confusion in society and the conflicts in and between individuals can hardly be denied. But neither can any fair-minded observer discount the preponderating influence exerted by religion on the vital expressions of civilization. Furthermore, its indispensability to social order has repeatedly been demonstrated by its direct effect on laws and morality. Writing of religion as a social force, Bahá’u’lláh said: “Religion is the greatest of all means for the establishment of order in the world and for the peaceful contentment of all that dwell therein.” Referring to the eclipse or corruption of religion, he wrote: “Should the lamp of religion be obscured, chaos and confusion will ensue, and the lights of fairness, of justice, of tranquillity and peace cease to shine.” In an enumeration of such consequences the Bahá’í writings point out that the “perversion of human nature, the degradation of human conduct, the corruption and dissolution of human institutions, reveal themselves, under such circumstances, in their worst and most revolting aspects. Human character is debased, confidence is shaken, the nerves of discipline are relaxed, the voice of human conscience is stilled, the sense of decency and shame is obscured, conceptions of duty, of solidarity, of reciprocity and loyalty are distorted, and the very and practical approaches. A fresh look at the problem is required, entailing consultation with experts from a wide spectrum of disciplines, devoid of economic and ideological polemics, and involving the people directly affected in the decisions that must urgently be made. It is an issue that is bound up not only with the necessity for eliminating extremes of wealth and poverty but also with those spiritual verities the understanding of which can produce a new universal attitude. Fostering such an attitude is itself a major part of the solution. Unbridled nationalism, as distinguished from a sane and legitimate patriotism, must give way to a wider loyalty, to the love of humanity as a whole. Bahá’u’lláh’s statement is: “The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens.” The concept of world citizenship is a direct result of the contraction of the world into a single neighbourhood through scientific advances and of the indisputable interdependence of nations. Love of all the world’s peoples does not exclude love of one’s country. The advantage of the part in a world society is best served by promoting the advantage of the whole. Current international activities in various fields which nurture mutual affection and a sense of solidarity among peoples need greatly to be increased. Religious strife, throughout history, has been the cause of innumerable wars and conflicts, a major blight to progress, and is increasingly abhorrent to the people of all faiths and no faith. Followers of all religions must be willing to face the basic questions which this strife raises, and to arrive at clear answers. How are the differences between them to be resolved, both in theory and in practice? The challenge facing the religious leaders of mankind is to contemplate, with hearts filled with the spirit of compassion and a desire of the earth must needs attend it, and, participating in its deliberations, must consider such ways and means as will lay the foundations of the world’s Great Peace amongst men.” The courage, the resolution, the pure motive, the selfless love of one people for another—all the spiritual and moral qualities required for effecting this momentous step towards peace are focused on the will to act. And it is towards arousing the necessary volition that earnest consideration must be given to the reality of man, namely, his thought. To understand the relevance of this potent reality is also to appreciate the social necessity of actualizing its unique value through candid, dispassionate and cordial consultation, and of acting upon the results of this process. Bahá’u’lláh insistently drew attention to the virtues and indispensability of consultation for ordering human affairs. He said: “Consultation bestows greater awareness and transmutes conjecture into certitude. It is a shining light which, in a dark world, leads the way and guides. For everything there is and will continue to be a station of perfection and maturity. The maturity of the gift of understanding is made manifest through consultation.” The very attempt to achieve peace through the consultative action he proposed can release such a salutary spirit among the peoples of the earth that no power could resist the final, triumphal outcome. Concerning the proceedings for this world gathering, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, the son of Bahá’u’lláh and authorized interpreter of his teachings, offered these insights: “They must make the Cause of Peace the object of general consultation, and seek by every means in their power to establish a Union of the nations of the world. They must conclude a binding treaty and establish a covenant, the provisions of which shall be sound, inviolable and definite. They must proclaim it to all divine guidance in human history. Its existence is yet another convincing proof of the practicality of its Founder’s vision of a united world, another evidence that humanity can live as one global society, equal to whatever challenges its coming of age may entail. If the Bahá’í experience can contribute in whatever measure to reinforcing hope in the unity of the human race, we are happy to offer it as a model for study. In contemplating the supreme importance of the task now challenging the entire world, we bow our heads in humility before the awesome majesty of the divine Creator, Who out of His infinite love has created all humanity from the same stock; exalted the gem-like reality of man; honoured it with intellect and wisdom, nobility and immortality; and conferred upon man the “unique distinction and capacity to know Him and to love Him”, a capacity that “must needs be regarded as the generating impulse and the primary purpose underlying the whole of creation.” We hold firmly the conviction that all human beings have been created “to carry forward an ever-advancing civilization”; that “to act like the beasts of the field is unworthy of man”; that the virtues that befit human dignity are trustworthiness, forbearance, mercy, compassion and loving-kindness towards all peoples. We reaffirm the belief that the “potentialities inherent in the station of man, the full measure of his destiny on earth, the innate excellence of his reality, must all be manifested in this promised Day of God.” These are the motivations for our unshakeable faith that unity and peace are the attainable goal towards which humanity is striving. At this writing, the expectant voices of Bahá’ís can be heard despite the persecution they still endure in the land in which their Faith was born. By their example of steadfast hope, they bear witness to the belief that the imminent realization of this age-old dream of peace is now, by virtue of the transforming effects of Bahá’u’lláh’s revelation, invested with the force of divine authority. Thus we convey to you not only a vision in words: we summon the power of deeds of faith and sacrifice; we convey the anxious plea of our co-religionists everywhere for peace and unity. We join with all who are the victims of aggression, all who yearn for an end to conflict and contention, all whose devotion to principles of peace and world order promotes the ennobling purposes for which humanity was called into being by an all-loving Creator. In the earnestness of our desire to impart to you the fervour of our hope and the depth of our confidence, we cite the emphatic promise of Bahá’u’lláh: “These fruitless strifes, these ruinous wars shall pass away, and the ‘Most Great Peace’ shall come.”

How does the Universal House of Justice describe mankind?

Mankind is one human family.

and practical approaches. A fresh look at the problem is required, entailing consultation with experts from a wide spectrum of disciplines, devoid of economic and ideological polemics, and involving the people directly affected in the decisions that must urgently be made. It is an issue that is bound up not only with the necessity for eliminating extremes of wealth and poverty but also with those spiritual verities the understanding of which can produce a new universal attitude. Fostering such an attitude is itself a major part of the solution. Unbridled nationalism, as distinguished from a sane and legitimate patriotism, must give way to a wider loyalty, to the love of humanity as a whole. Bahá’u’lláh’s statement is: “The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens.” The concept of world citizenship is a direct result of the contraction of the world into a single neighbourhood through scientific advances and of the indisputable interdependence of nations. Love of all the world’s peoples does not exclude love of one’s country. The advantage of the part in a world society is best served by promoting the advantage of the whole. Current international activities in various fields which nurture mutual affection and a sense of solidarity among peoples need greatly to be increased. Religious strife, throughout history, has been the cause of innumerable wars and conflicts, a major blight to progress, and is increasingly abhorrent to the people of all faiths and no faith. Followers of all religions must be willing to face the basic questions which this strife raises, and to arrive at clear answers. How are the differences between them to be resolved, both in theory and in practice? The challenge facing the religious leaders of mankind is to contemplate, with hearts filled with the spirit of compassion and a desire ultimate reality, that unknowable essence of essences called God. The religions brought to mankind by a succession of spiritual luminaries have been the primary link between humanity and that ultimate reality, and have galvanized and refined mankind’s capacity to achieve spiritual success together with social progress. No serious attempt to set human affairs aright, to achieve world peace, can ignore religion. Man’s perception and practice of it are largely the stuff of history. An eminent historian described religion as a “faculty of human nature”. That the perversion of this faculty has contributed to much of the confusion in society and the conflicts in and between individuals can hardly be denied. But neither can any fair-minded observer discount the preponderating influence exerted by religion on the vital expressions of civilization. Furthermore, its indispensability to social order has repeatedly been demonstrated by its direct effect on laws and morality. Writing of religion as a social force, Bahá’u’lláh said: “Religion is the greatest of all means for the establishment of order in the world and for the peaceful contentment of all that dwell therein.” Referring to the eclipse or corruption of religion, he wrote: “Should the lamp of religion be obscured, chaos and confusion will ensue, and the lights of fairness, of justice, of tranquillity and peace cease to shine.” In an enumeration of such consequences the Bahá’í writings point out that the “perversion of human nature, the degradation of human conduct, the corruption and dissolution of human institutions, reveal themselves, under such circumstances, in their worst and most revolting aspects. Human character is debased, confidence is shaken, the nerves of discipline are relaxed, the voice of human conscience is stilled, the sense of decency and shame is obscured, conceptions of duty, of solidarity, of reciprocity and loyalty are distorted, and the very of the earth must needs attend it, and, participating in its deliberations, must consider such ways and means as will lay the foundations of the world’s Great Peace amongst men.” The courage, the resolution, the pure motive, the selfless love of one people for another—all the spiritual and moral qualities required for effecting this momentous step towards peace are focused on the will to act. And it is towards arousing the necessary volition that earnest consideration must be given to the reality of man, namely, his thought. To understand the relevance of this potent reality is also to appreciate the social necessity of actualizing its unique value through candid, dispassionate and cordial consultation, and of acting upon the results of this process. Bahá’u’lláh insistently drew attention to the virtues and indispensability of consultation for ordering human affairs. He said: “Consultation bestows greater awareness and transmutes conjecture into certitude. It is a shining light which, in a dark world, leads the way and guides. For everything there is and will continue to be a station of perfection and maturity. The maturity of the gift of understanding is made manifest through consultation.” The very attempt to achieve peace through the consultative action he proposed can release such a salutary spirit among the peoples of the earth that no power could resist the final, triumphal outcome. Concerning the proceedings for this world gathering, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, the son of Bahá’u’lláh and authorized interpreter of his teachings, offered these insights: “They must make the Cause of Peace the object of general consultation, and seek by every means in their power to establish a Union of the nations of the world. They must conclude a binding treaty and establish a covenant, the provisions of which shall be sound, inviolable and definite. They must proclaim it to all divine guidance in human history. Its existence is yet another convincing proof of the practicality of its Founder’s vision of a united world, another evidence that humanity can live as one global society, equal to whatever challenges its coming of age may entail. If the Bahá’í experience can contribute in whatever measure to reinforcing hope in the unity of the human race, we are happy to offer it as a model for study. In contemplating the supreme importance of the task now challenging the entire world, we bow our heads in humility before the awesome majesty of the divine Creator, Who out of His infinite love has created all humanity from the same stock; exalted the gem-like reality of man; honoured it with intellect and wisdom, nobility and immortality; and conferred upon man the “unique distinction and capacity to know Him and to love Him”, a capacity that “must needs be regarded as the generating impulse and the primary purpose underlying the whole of creation.” We hold firmly the conviction that all human beings have been created “to carry forward an ever-advancing civilization”; that “to act like the beasts of the field is unworthy of man”; that the virtues that befit human dignity are trustworthiness, forbearance, mercy, compassion and loving-kindness towards all peoples. We reaffirm the belief that the “potentialities inherent in the station of man, the full measure of his destiny on earth, the innate excellence of his reality, must all be manifested in this promised Day of God.” These are the motivations for our unshakeable faith that unity and peace are the attainable goal towards which humanity is striving. At this writing, the expectant voices of Bahá’ís can be heard despite the persecution they still endure in the land in which their Faith was born. By their example standard education of every child. A fundamental lack of communication between peoples seriously undermines efforts towards world peace. Adopting an international auxiliary language would go far to resolving this problem and necessitates the most urgent attention. Two points bear emphasizing in all these issues. One is that the abolition of war is not simply a matter of signing treaties and protocols; it is a complex task requiring a new level of commitment to resolving issues not customarily associated with the pursuit of peace. Based on political agreements alone, the idea of collective security is a chimera. The other point is that the primary challenge in dealing with issues of peace is to raise the context to the level of principle, as distinct from pure pragmatism. For, in essence, peace stems from an inner state supported by a spiritual or moral attitude, and it is chiefly in evoking this attitude that the possibility of enduring solutions can be found. There are spiritual principles, or what some call human values, by which solutions can be found for every social problem. Any well-intentioned group can in a general sense devise practical solutions to its problems, but good intentions and practical knowledge are usually not enough. The essential merit of spiritual principle is that it not only presents a perspective which harmonizes with that which is immanent in human nature, it also induces an attitude, a dynamic, a will, an aspiration, which facilitate the discovery and implementation of practical measures. Leaders of governments and all in authority would be well served in their efforts to solve problems if they would first seek to identify the principles involved and then be guided by them. The primary question to be resolved is how the present world, with its entrenched pattern of conflict, can change to a

What document states world peace is now possible?

Universal House of Justice

ultimate reality, that unknowable essence of essences called God. The religions brought to mankind by a succession of spiritual luminaries have been the primary link between humanity and that ultimate reality, and have galvanized and refined mankind’s capacity to achieve spiritual success together with social progress. No serious attempt to set human affairs aright, to achieve world peace, can ignore religion. Man’s perception and practice of it are largely the stuff of history. An eminent historian described religion as a “faculty of human nature”. That the perversion of this faculty has contributed to much of the confusion in society and the conflicts in and between individuals can hardly be denied. But neither can any fair-minded observer discount the preponderating influence exerted by religion on the vital expressions of civilization. Furthermore, its indispensability to social order has repeatedly been demonstrated by its direct effect on laws and morality. Writing of religion as a social force, Bahá’u’lláh said: “Religion is the greatest of all means for the establishment of order in the world and for the peaceful contentment of all that dwell therein.” Referring to the eclipse or corruption of religion, he wrote: “Should the lamp of religion be obscured, chaos and confusion will ensue, and the lights of fairness, of justice, of tranquillity and peace cease to shine.” In an enumeration of such consequences the Bahá’í writings point out that the “perversion of human nature, the degradation of human conduct, the corruption and dissolution of human institutions, reveal themselves, under such circumstances, in their worst and most revolting aspects. Human character is debased, confidence is shaken, the nerves of discipline are relaxed, the voice of human conscience is stilled, the sense of decency and shame is obscured, conceptions of duty, of solidarity, of reciprocity and loyalty are distorted, and the very and practical approaches. A fresh look at the problem is required, entailing consultation with experts from a wide spectrum of disciplines, devoid of economic and ideological polemics, and involving the people directly affected in the decisions that must urgently be made. It is an issue that is bound up not only with the necessity for eliminating extremes of wealth and poverty but also with those spiritual verities the understanding of which can produce a new universal attitude. Fostering such an attitude is itself a major part of the solution. Unbridled nationalism, as distinguished from a sane and legitimate patriotism, must give way to a wider loyalty, to the love of humanity as a whole. Bahá’u’lláh’s statement is: “The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens.” The concept of world citizenship is a direct result of the contraction of the world into a single neighbourhood through scientific advances and of the indisputable interdependence of nations. Love of all the world’s peoples does not exclude love of one’s country. The advantage of the part in a world society is best served by promoting the advantage of the whole. Current international activities in various fields which nurture mutual affection and a sense of solidarity among peoples need greatly to be increased. Religious strife, throughout history, has been the cause of innumerable wars and conflicts, a major blight to progress, and is increasingly abhorrent to the people of all faiths and no faith. Followers of all religions must be willing to face the basic questions which this strife raises, and to arrive at clear answers. How are the differences between them to be resolved, both in theory and in practice? The challenge facing the religious leaders of mankind is to contemplate, with hearts filled with the spirit of compassion and a desire of the earth must needs attend it, and, participating in its deliberations, must consider such ways and means as will lay the foundations of the world’s Great Peace amongst men.” The courage, the resolution, the pure motive, the selfless love of one people for another—all the spiritual and moral qualities required for effecting this momentous step towards peace are focused on the will to act. And it is towards arousing the necessary volition that earnest consideration must be given to the reality of man, namely, his thought. To understand the relevance of this potent reality is also to appreciate the social necessity of actualizing its unique value through candid, dispassionate and cordial consultation, and of acting upon the results of this process. Bahá’u’lláh insistently drew attention to the virtues and indispensability of consultation for ordering human affairs. He said: “Consultation bestows greater awareness and transmutes conjecture into certitude. It is a shining light which, in a dark world, leads the way and guides. For everything there is and will continue to be a station of perfection and maturity. The maturity of the gift of understanding is made manifest through consultation.” The very attempt to achieve peace through the consultative action he proposed can release such a salutary spirit among the peoples of the earth that no power could resist the final, triumphal outcome. Concerning the proceedings for this world gathering, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, the son of Bahá’u’lláh and authorized interpreter of his teachings, offered these insights: “They must make the Cause of Peace the object of general consultation, and seek by every means in their power to establish a Union of the nations of the world. They must conclude a binding treaty and establish a covenant, the provisions of which shall be sound, inviolable and definite. They must proclaim it to all violent and disruptive phenomena associated with it testifies to the spiritual bankruptcy it represents. Indeed, one of the strangest and saddest features of the current outbreak of religious fanaticism is the extent to which, in each case, it is undermining not only the spiritual values which are conducive to the unity of mankind but also those unique moral victories won by the particular religion it purports to serve. However vital a force religion has been in the history of mankind, and however dramatic the current resurgence of militant religious fanaticism, religion and religious institutions have, for many decades, been viewed by increasing numbers of people as irrelevant to the major concerns of the modern world. In its place they have turned either to the hedonistic pursuit of material satisfactions or to the following of man-made ideologies designed to rescue society from the evident evils under which it groans. All too many of these ideologies, alas, instead of embracing the concept of the oneness of mankind and promoting the increase of concord among different peoples, have tended to deify the state, to subordinate the rest of mankind to one nation, race or class, to attempt to suppress all discussion and interchange of ideas, or to callously abandon starving millions to the operations of a market system that all too clearly is aggravating the plight of the majority of mankind, while enabling small sections to live in a condition of affluence scarcely dreamed of by our forebears. How tragic is the record of the substitute faiths that the worldly-wise of our age have created. In the massive disillusionment of entire populations who have been taught to worship at their altars can be read history’s irreversible verdict on their value. The fruits these doctrines have produced, after decades of an increasingly unrestrained exercise divine guidance in human history. Its existence is yet another convincing proof of the practicality of its Founder’s vision of a united world, another evidence that humanity can live as one global society, equal to whatever challenges its coming of age may entail. If the Bahá’í experience can contribute in whatever measure to reinforcing hope in the unity of the human race, we are happy to offer it as a model for study. In contemplating the supreme importance of the task now challenging the entire world, we bow our heads in humility before the awesome majesty of the divine Creator, Who out of His infinite love has created all humanity from the same stock; exalted the gem-like reality of man; honoured it with intellect and wisdom, nobility and immortality; and conferred upon man the “unique distinction and capacity to know Him and to love Him”, a capacity that “must needs be regarded as the generating impulse and the primary purpose underlying the whole of creation.” We hold firmly the conviction that all human beings have been created “to carry forward an ever-advancing civilization”; that “to act like the beasts of the field is unworthy of man”; that the virtues that befit human dignity are trustworthiness, forbearance, mercy, compassion and loving-kindness towards all peoples. We reaffirm the belief that the “potentialities inherent in the station of man, the full measure of his destiny on earth, the innate excellence of his reality, must all be manifested in this promised Day of God.” These are the motivations for our unshakeable faith that unity and peace are the attainable goal towards which humanity is striving. At this writing, the expectant voices of Bahá’ís can be heard despite the persecution they still endure in the land in which their Faith was born. By their example

Human beings are believed to be intrinsically?

Hostile

violent and disruptive phenomena associated with it testifies to the spiritual bankruptcy it represents. Indeed, one of the strangest and saddest features of the current outbreak of religious fanaticism is the extent to which, in each case, it is undermining not only the spiritual values which are conducive to the unity of mankind but also those unique moral victories won by the particular religion it purports to serve. However vital a force religion has been in the history of mankind, and however dramatic the current resurgence of militant religious fanaticism, religion and religious institutions have, for many decades, been viewed by increasing numbers of people as irrelevant to the major concerns of the modern world. In its place they have turned either to the hedonistic pursuit of material satisfactions or to the following of man-made ideologies designed to rescue society from the evident evils under which it groans. All too many of these ideologies, alas, instead of embracing the concept of the oneness of mankind and promoting the increase of concord among different peoples, have tended to deify the state, to subordinate the rest of mankind to one nation, race or class, to attempt to suppress all discussion and interchange of ideas, or to callously abandon starving millions to the operations of a market system that all too clearly is aggravating the plight of the majority of mankind, while enabling small sections to live in a condition of affluence scarcely dreamed of by our forebears. How tragic is the record of the substitute faiths that the worldly-wise of our age have created. In the massive disillusionment of entire populations who have been taught to worship at their altars can be read history’s irreversible verdict on their value. The fruits these doctrines have produced, after decades of an increasingly unrestrained exercise and practical approaches. A fresh look at the problem is required, entailing consultation with experts from a wide spectrum of disciplines, devoid of economic and ideological polemics, and involving the people directly affected in the decisions that must urgently be made. It is an issue that is bound up not only with the necessity for eliminating extremes of wealth and poverty but also with those spiritual verities the understanding of which can produce a new universal attitude. Fostering such an attitude is itself a major part of the solution. Unbridled nationalism, as distinguished from a sane and legitimate patriotism, must give way to a wider loyalty, to the love of humanity as a whole. Bahá’u’lláh’s statement is: “The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens.” The concept of world citizenship is a direct result of the contraction of the world into a single neighbourhood through scientific advances and of the indisputable interdependence of nations. Love of all the world’s peoples does not exclude love of one’s country. The advantage of the part in a world society is best served by promoting the advantage of the whole. Current international activities in various fields which nurture mutual affection and a sense of solidarity among peoples need greatly to be increased. Religious strife, throughout history, has been the cause of innumerable wars and conflicts, a major blight to progress, and is increasingly abhorrent to the people of all faiths and no faith. Followers of all religions must be willing to face the basic questions which this strife raises, and to arrive at clear answers. How are the differences between them to be resolved, both in theory and in practice? The challenge facing the religious leaders of mankind is to contemplate, with hearts filled with the spirit of compassion and a desire ultimate reality, that unknowable essence of essences called God. The religions brought to mankind by a succession of spiritual luminaries have been the primary link between humanity and that ultimate reality, and have galvanized and refined mankind’s capacity to achieve spiritual success together with social progress. No serious attempt to set human affairs aright, to achieve world peace, can ignore religion. Man’s perception and practice of it are largely the stuff of history. An eminent historian described religion as a “faculty of human nature”. That the perversion of this faculty has contributed to much of the confusion in society and the conflicts in and between individuals can hardly be denied. But neither can any fair-minded observer discount the preponderating influence exerted by religion on the vital expressions of civilization. Furthermore, its indispensability to social order has repeatedly been demonstrated by its direct effect on laws and morality. Writing of religion as a social force, Bahá’u’lláh said: “Religion is the greatest of all means for the establishment of order in the world and for the peaceful contentment of all that dwell therein.” Referring to the eclipse or corruption of religion, he wrote: “Should the lamp of religion be obscured, chaos and confusion will ensue, and the lights of fairness, of justice, of tranquillity and peace cease to shine.” In an enumeration of such consequences the Bahá’í writings point out that the “perversion of human nature, the degradation of human conduct, the corruption and dissolution of human institutions, reveal themselves, under such circumstances, in their worst and most revolting aspects. Human character is debased, confidence is shaken, the nerves of discipline are relaxed, the voice of human conscience is stilled, the sense of decency and shame is obscured, conceptions of duty, of solidarity, of reciprocity and loyalty are distorted, and the very of the earth must needs attend it, and, participating in its deliberations, must consider such ways and means as will lay the foundations of the world’s Great Peace amongst men.” The courage, the resolution, the pure motive, the selfless love of one people for another—all the spiritual and moral qualities required for effecting this momentous step towards peace are focused on the will to act. And it is towards arousing the necessary volition that earnest consideration must be given to the reality of man, namely, his thought. To understand the relevance of this potent reality is also to appreciate the social necessity of actualizing its unique value through candid, dispassionate and cordial consultation, and of acting upon the results of this process. Bahá’u’lláh insistently drew attention to the virtues and indispensability of consultation for ordering human affairs. He said: “Consultation bestows greater awareness and transmutes conjecture into certitude. It is a shining light which, in a dark world, leads the way and guides. For everything there is and will continue to be a station of perfection and maturity. The maturity of the gift of understanding is made manifest through consultation.” The very attempt to achieve peace through the consultative action he proposed can release such a salutary spirit among the peoples of the earth that no power could resist the final, triumphal outcome. Concerning the proceedings for this world gathering, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, the son of Bahá’u’lláh and authorized interpreter of his teachings, offered these insights: “They must make the Cause of Peace the object of general consultation, and seek by every means in their power to establish a Union of the nations of the world. They must conclude a binding treaty and establish a covenant, the provisions of which shall be sound, inviolable and definite. They must proclaim it to all must needs be evolved, in whose favour all the nations of the world will have willingly ceded every claim to make war, certain rights to impose taxation and all rights to maintain armaments, except for purposes of maintaining internal order within their respective dominions. Such a state will have to include within its orbit an International Executive adequate to enforce supreme and unchallengeable authority on every recalcitrant member of the commonwealth; a World Parliament whose members shall be elected by the people in their respective countries and whose election shall be confirmed by their respective governments; and a Supreme Tribunal whose judgement will have a binding effect even in such cases where the parties concerned did not voluntarily agree to submit their case to its consideration. “A world community in which all economic barriers will have been permanently demolished and the interdependence of capital and labour definitely recognized; in which the clamour of religious fanaticism and strife will have been forever stilled; in which the flame of racial animosity will have been finally extinguished; in which a single code of international law—the product of the considered judgement of the world’s federated representatives—shall have as its sanction the instant and coercive intervention of the combined forces of the federated units; and finally a world community in which the fury of a capricious and militant nationalism will have been transmuted into an abiding consciousness of world citizenship—such indeed, appears, in its broadest outline, the Order anticipated by Bahá’u’lláh, an Order that shall come to be regarded as the fairest fruit of a slowly maturing age.” The implementation of these far-reaching measures was indicated by Bahá’u’lláh: “The time must come when the imperative necessity for the holding of a vast, an all-embracing assemblage of men will be universally realized. The rulers and kings

A contrary argument states human beings are fundamentally what?

Spiritual

and practical approaches. A fresh look at the problem is required, entailing consultation with experts from a wide spectrum of disciplines, devoid of economic and ideological polemics, and involving the people directly affected in the decisions that must urgently be made. It is an issue that is bound up not only with the necessity for eliminating extremes of wealth and poverty but also with those spiritual verities the understanding of which can produce a new universal attitude. Fostering such an attitude is itself a major part of the solution. Unbridled nationalism, as distinguished from a sane and legitimate patriotism, must give way to a wider loyalty, to the love of humanity as a whole. Bahá’u’lláh’s statement is: “The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens.” The concept of world citizenship is a direct result of the contraction of the world into a single neighbourhood through scientific advances and of the indisputable interdependence of nations. Love of all the world’s peoples does not exclude love of one’s country. The advantage of the part in a world society is best served by promoting the advantage of the whole. Current international activities in various fields which nurture mutual affection and a sense of solidarity among peoples need greatly to be increased. Religious strife, throughout history, has been the cause of innumerable wars and conflicts, a major blight to progress, and is increasingly abhorrent to the people of all faiths and no faith. Followers of all religions must be willing to face the basic questions which this strife raises, and to arrive at clear answers. How are the differences between them to be resolved, both in theory and in practice? The challenge facing the religious leaders of mankind is to contemplate, with hearts filled with the spirit of compassion and a desire of the earth must needs attend it, and, participating in its deliberations, must consider such ways and means as will lay the foundations of the world’s Great Peace amongst men.” The courage, the resolution, the pure motive, the selfless love of one people for another—all the spiritual and moral qualities required for effecting this momentous step towards peace are focused on the will to act. And it is towards arousing the necessary volition that earnest consideration must be given to the reality of man, namely, his thought. To understand the relevance of this potent reality is also to appreciate the social necessity of actualizing its unique value through candid, dispassionate and cordial consultation, and of acting upon the results of this process. Bahá’u’lláh insistently drew attention to the virtues and indispensability of consultation for ordering human affairs. He said: “Consultation bestows greater awareness and transmutes conjecture into certitude. It is a shining light which, in a dark world, leads the way and guides. For everything there is and will continue to be a station of perfection and maturity. The maturity of the gift of understanding is made manifest through consultation.” The very attempt to achieve peace through the consultative action he proposed can release such a salutary spirit among the peoples of the earth that no power could resist the final, triumphal outcome. Concerning the proceedings for this world gathering, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, the son of Bahá’u’lláh and authorized interpreter of his teachings, offered these insights: “They must make the Cause of Peace the object of general consultation, and seek by every means in their power to establish a Union of the nations of the world. They must conclude a binding treaty and establish a covenant, the provisions of which shall be sound, inviolable and definite. They must proclaim it to all ultimate reality, that unknowable essence of essences called God. The religions brought to mankind by a succession of spiritual luminaries have been the primary link between humanity and that ultimate reality, and have galvanized and refined mankind’s capacity to achieve spiritual success together with social progress. No serious attempt to set human affairs aright, to achieve world peace, can ignore religion. Man’s perception and practice of it are largely the stuff of history. An eminent historian described religion as a “faculty of human nature”. That the perversion of this faculty has contributed to much of the confusion in society and the conflicts in and between individuals can hardly be denied. But neither can any fair-minded observer discount the preponderating influence exerted by religion on the vital expressions of civilization. Furthermore, its indispensability to social order has repeatedly been demonstrated by its direct effect on laws and morality. Writing of religion as a social force, Bahá’u’lláh said: “Religion is the greatest of all means for the establishment of order in the world and for the peaceful contentment of all that dwell therein.” Referring to the eclipse or corruption of religion, he wrote: “Should the lamp of religion be obscured, chaos and confusion will ensue, and the lights of fairness, of justice, of tranquillity and peace cease to shine.” In an enumeration of such consequences the Bahá’í writings point out that the “perversion of human nature, the degradation of human conduct, the corruption and dissolution of human institutions, reveal themselves, under such circumstances, in their worst and most revolting aspects. Human character is debased, confidence is shaken, the nerves of discipline are relaxed, the voice of human conscience is stilled, the sense of decency and shame is obscured, conceptions of duty, of solidarity, of reciprocity and loyalty are distorted, and the very The Promise of World Peace by Universal House of Justice Edition 1, (September 2006) 2. The Content may not be modified or altered in any way except to change the font or appearance; 3. The Content must be used solely for a non-commercial purpose. For permission to publish, transmit, display or otherwise use the Content for any commercial purpose, please contact us (http://reference.bahai.org/en/contact.html). Baha’i Terms of Use I II III IV To the Peoples of the World: The Great Peace towards which people of good will throughout the centuries have inclined their hearts, of which seers and poets for countless generations have expressed their vision, and for which from age to age the sacred scriptures of mankind have constantly held the promise, is now at long last within the reach of the nations. For the first time in history it is possible for everyone to view the entire planet, with all its myriad diversified peoples, in one perspective. World peace is not only possible but inevitable. It is the next stage in the evolution of this planet—in the words of one great thinker, “the planetization of mankind”. Whether peace is to be reached only after unimaginable horrors precipitated by humanity’s stubborn clinging to old patterns of behaviour, or is to be embraced now by an act of consultative will, is the choice before all who inhabit the earth. At this critical juncture when the intractable problems confronting nations have been fused into one common concern for the whole world, failure to stem the tide of conflict and disorder would be unconscionably irresponsible. Among the favourable signs are the steadily growing strength of the steps towards world order taken initially near the beginning of this century in the creation of the League of Nations, succeeded by the more broadly based United maturity, must abandon this fetish, recognize the oneness and wholeness of human relationships, and establish once for all the machinery that can best incarnate this fundamental principle of its life.” All contemporary forces of change validate this view. The proofs can be discerned in the many examples already cited of the favourable signs towards world peace in current international movements and developments. The army of men and women, drawn from virtually every culture, race and nation on earth, who serve the multifarious agencies of the United Nations, represent a planetary “civil service” whose impressive accomplishments are indicative of the degree of co-operation that can be attained even under discouraging conditions. An urge towards unity, like a spiritual springtime, struggles to express itself through countless international congresses that bring together people from a vast array of disciplines. It motivates appeals for international projects involving children and youth. Indeed, it is the real source of the remarkable movement towards ecumenism by which members of historically antagonistic religions and sects seem irresistibly drawn towards one another. Together with the opposing tendency to warfare and self-aggrandizement against which it ceaselessly struggles, the drive towards world unity is one of the dominant, pervasive features of life on the planet during the closing years of the twentieth century. The experience of the Bahá’í community may be seen as an example of this enlarging unity. It is a community of some three to four million people drawn from many nations, cultures, classes and creeds, engaged in a wide range of activities serving the spiritual, social and economic needs of the peoples of many lands. It is a single social organism, representative of the diversity of the human family, conducting its affairs through a system of commonly accepted consultative principles, and cherishing equally all the great outpourings of

Peace cannot occur without what?

Religion

violent and disruptive phenomena associated with it testifies to the spiritual bankruptcy it represents. Indeed, one of the strangest and saddest features of the current outbreak of religious fanaticism is the extent to which, in each case, it is undermining not only the spiritual values which are conducive to the unity of mankind but also those unique moral victories won by the particular religion it purports to serve. However vital a force religion has been in the history of mankind, and however dramatic the current resurgence of militant religious fanaticism, religion and religious institutions have, for many decades, been viewed by increasing numbers of people as irrelevant to the major concerns of the modern world. In its place they have turned either to the hedonistic pursuit of material satisfactions or to the following of man-made ideologies designed to rescue society from the evident evils under which it groans. All too many of these ideologies, alas, instead of embracing the concept of the oneness of mankind and promoting the increase of concord among different peoples, have tended to deify the state, to subordinate the rest of mankind to one nation, race or class, to attempt to suppress all discussion and interchange of ideas, or to callously abandon starving millions to the operations of a market system that all too clearly is aggravating the plight of the majority of mankind, while enabling small sections to live in a condition of affluence scarcely dreamed of by our forebears. How tragic is the record of the substitute faiths that the worldly-wise of our age have created. In the massive disillusionment of entire populations who have been taught to worship at their altars can be read history’s irreversible verdict on their value. The fruits these doctrines have produced, after decades of an increasingly unrestrained exercise and practical approaches. A fresh look at the problem is required, entailing consultation with experts from a wide spectrum of disciplines, devoid of economic and ideological polemics, and involving the people directly affected in the decisions that must urgently be made. It is an issue that is bound up not only with the necessity for eliminating extremes of wealth and poverty but also with those spiritual verities the understanding of which can produce a new universal attitude. Fostering such an attitude is itself a major part of the solution. Unbridled nationalism, as distinguished from a sane and legitimate patriotism, must give way to a wider loyalty, to the love of humanity as a whole. Bahá’u’lláh’s statement is: “The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens.” The concept of world citizenship is a direct result of the contraction of the world into a single neighbourhood through scientific advances and of the indisputable interdependence of nations. Love of all the world’s peoples does not exclude love of one’s country. The advantage of the part in a world society is best served by promoting the advantage of the whole. Current international activities in various fields which nurture mutual affection and a sense of solidarity among peoples need greatly to be increased. Religious strife, throughout history, has been the cause of innumerable wars and conflicts, a major blight to progress, and is increasingly abhorrent to the people of all faiths and no faith. Followers of all religions must be willing to face the basic questions which this strife raises, and to arrive at clear answers. How are the differences between them to be resolved, both in theory and in practice? The challenge facing the religious leaders of mankind is to contemplate, with hearts filled with the spirit of compassion and a desire The Promise of World Peace by Universal House of Justice Edition 1, (September 2006) 2. The Content may not be modified or altered in any way except to change the font or appearance; 3. The Content must be used solely for a non-commercial purpose. For permission to publish, transmit, display or otherwise use the Content for any commercial purpose, please contact us (http://reference.bahai.org/en/contact.html). Baha’i Terms of Use I II III IV To the Peoples of the World: The Great Peace towards which people of good will throughout the centuries have inclined their hearts, of which seers and poets for countless generations have expressed their vision, and for which from age to age the sacred scriptures of mankind have constantly held the promise, is now at long last within the reach of the nations. For the first time in history it is possible for everyone to view the entire planet, with all its myriad diversified peoples, in one perspective. World peace is not only possible but inevitable. It is the next stage in the evolution of this planet—in the words of one great thinker, “the planetization of mankind”. Whether peace is to be reached only after unimaginable horrors precipitated by humanity’s stubborn clinging to old patterns of behaviour, or is to be embraced now by an act of consultative will, is the choice before all who inhabit the earth. At this critical juncture when the intractable problems confronting nations have been fused into one common concern for the whole world, failure to stem the tide of conflict and disorder would be unconscionably irresponsible. Among the favourable signs are the steadily growing strength of the steps towards world order taken initially near the beginning of this century in the creation of the League of Nations, succeeded by the more broadly based United ultimate reality, that unknowable essence of essences called God. The religions brought to mankind by a succession of spiritual luminaries have been the primary link between humanity and that ultimate reality, and have galvanized and refined mankind’s capacity to achieve spiritual success together with social progress. No serious attempt to set human affairs aright, to achieve world peace, can ignore religion. Man’s perception and practice of it are largely the stuff of history. An eminent historian described religion as a “faculty of human nature”. That the perversion of this faculty has contributed to much of the confusion in society and the conflicts in and between individuals can hardly be denied. But neither can any fair-minded observer discount the preponderating influence exerted by religion on the vital expressions of civilization. Furthermore, its indispensability to social order has repeatedly been demonstrated by its direct effect on laws and morality. Writing of religion as a social force, Bahá’u’lláh said: “Religion is the greatest of all means for the establishment of order in the world and for the peaceful contentment of all that dwell therein.” Referring to the eclipse or corruption of religion, he wrote: “Should the lamp of religion be obscured, chaos and confusion will ensue, and the lights of fairness, of justice, of tranquillity and peace cease to shine.” In an enumeration of such consequences the Bahá’í writings point out that the “perversion of human nature, the degradation of human conduct, the corruption and dissolution of human institutions, reveal themselves, under such circumstances, in their worst and most revolting aspects. Human character is debased, confidence is shaken, the nerves of discipline are relaxed, the voice of human conscience is stilled, the sense of decency and shame is obscured, conceptions of duty, of solidarity, of reciprocity and loyalty are distorted, and the very world in which harmony and co-operation will prevail. World order can be founded only on an unshakeable consciousness of the oneness of mankind, a spiritual truth which all the human sciences confirm. Anthropology, physiology, psychology, recognize only one human species, albeit infinitely varied in the secondary aspects of life. Recognition of this truth requires abandonment of prejudice—prejudice of every kind—race, class, colour, creed, nation, sex, degree of material civilization, everything which enables people to consider themselves superior to others. Acceptance of the oneness of mankind is the first fundamental prerequisite for reorganization and administration of the world as one country, the home of humankind. Universal acceptance of this spiritual principle is essential to any successful attempt to establish world peace. It should therefore be universally proclaimed, taught in schools, and constantly asserted in every nation as preparation for the organic change in the structure of society which it implies. In the Bahá’í view, recognition of the oneness of mankind “calls for no less than the reconstruction and the demilitarization of the whole civilized world—a world organically unified in all the essential aspects of its life, its political machinery, its spiritual aspiration, its trade and finance, its script and language, and yet infinite in the diversity of the national characteristics of its federated units.” Elaborating the implications of this pivotal principle, Shoghi Effendi, the Guardian of the Bahá’í Faith, commented in 1931 that: “Far from aiming at the subversion of the existing foundations of society, it seeks to broaden its basis, to remold its institutions in a manner consonant with the needs of an ever-changing world. It can conflict with no legitimate allegiances, nor can it undermine essential loyalties. Its purpose is neither to stifle the flame of a sane and intelligent patriotism in men’s hearts, nor to abolish the system

Who is the founder of Baha'i?

Baha'u'llah

ultimate reality, that unknowable essence of essences called God. The religions brought to mankind by a succession of spiritual luminaries have been the primary link between humanity and that ultimate reality, and have galvanized and refined mankind’s capacity to achieve spiritual success together with social progress. No serious attempt to set human affairs aright, to achieve world peace, can ignore religion. Man’s perception and practice of it are largely the stuff of history. An eminent historian described religion as a “faculty of human nature”. That the perversion of this faculty has contributed to much of the confusion in society and the conflicts in and between individuals can hardly be denied. But neither can any fair-minded observer discount the preponderating influence exerted by religion on the vital expressions of civilization. Furthermore, its indispensability to social order has repeatedly been demonstrated by its direct effect on laws and morality. Writing of religion as a social force, Bahá’u’lláh said: “Religion is the greatest of all means for the establishment of order in the world and for the peaceful contentment of all that dwell therein.” Referring to the eclipse or corruption of religion, he wrote: “Should the lamp of religion be obscured, chaos and confusion will ensue, and the lights of fairness, of justice, of tranquillity and peace cease to shine.” In an enumeration of such consequences the Bahá’í writings point out that the “perversion of human nature, the degradation of human conduct, the corruption and dissolution of human institutions, reveal themselves, under such circumstances, in their worst and most revolting aspects. Human character is debased, confidence is shaken, the nerves of discipline are relaxed, the voice of human conscience is stilled, the sense of decency and shame is obscured, conceptions of duty, of solidarity, of reciprocity and loyalty are distorted, and the very and practical approaches. A fresh look at the problem is required, entailing consultation with experts from a wide spectrum of disciplines, devoid of economic and ideological polemics, and involving the people directly affected in the decisions that must urgently be made. It is an issue that is bound up not only with the necessity for eliminating extremes of wealth and poverty but also with those spiritual verities the understanding of which can produce a new universal attitude. Fostering such an attitude is itself a major part of the solution. Unbridled nationalism, as distinguished from a sane and legitimate patriotism, must give way to a wider loyalty, to the love of humanity as a whole. Bahá’u’lláh’s statement is: “The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens.” The concept of world citizenship is a direct result of the contraction of the world into a single neighbourhood through scientific advances and of the indisputable interdependence of nations. Love of all the world’s peoples does not exclude love of one’s country. The advantage of the part in a world society is best served by promoting the advantage of the whole. Current international activities in various fields which nurture mutual affection and a sense of solidarity among peoples need greatly to be increased. Religious strife, throughout history, has been the cause of innumerable wars and conflicts, a major blight to progress, and is increasingly abhorrent to the people of all faiths and no faith. Followers of all religions must be willing to face the basic questions which this strife raises, and to arrive at clear answers. How are the differences between them to be resolved, both in theory and in practice? The challenge facing the religious leaders of mankind is to contemplate, with hearts filled with the spirit of compassion and a desire violent and disruptive phenomena associated with it testifies to the spiritual bankruptcy it represents. Indeed, one of the strangest and saddest features of the current outbreak of religious fanaticism is the extent to which, in each case, it is undermining not only the spiritual values which are conducive to the unity of mankind but also those unique moral victories won by the particular religion it purports to serve. However vital a force religion has been in the history of mankind, and however dramatic the current resurgence of militant religious fanaticism, religion and religious institutions have, for many decades, been viewed by increasing numbers of people as irrelevant to the major concerns of the modern world. In its place they have turned either to the hedonistic pursuit of material satisfactions or to the following of man-made ideologies designed to rescue society from the evident evils under which it groans. All too many of these ideologies, alas, instead of embracing the concept of the oneness of mankind and promoting the increase of concord among different peoples, have tended to deify the state, to subordinate the rest of mankind to one nation, race or class, to attempt to suppress all discussion and interchange of ideas, or to callously abandon starving millions to the operations of a market system that all too clearly is aggravating the plight of the majority of mankind, while enabling small sections to live in a condition of affluence scarcely dreamed of by our forebears. How tragic is the record of the substitute faiths that the worldly-wise of our age have created. In the massive disillusionment of entire populations who have been taught to worship at their altars can be read history’s irreversible verdict on their value. The fruits these doctrines have produced, after decades of an increasingly unrestrained exercise world in which harmony and co-operation will prevail. World order can be founded only on an unshakeable consciousness of the oneness of mankind, a spiritual truth which all the human sciences confirm. Anthropology, physiology, psychology, recognize only one human species, albeit infinitely varied in the secondary aspects of life. Recognition of this truth requires abandonment of prejudice—prejudice of every kind—race, class, colour, creed, nation, sex, degree of material civilization, everything which enables people to consider themselves superior to others. Acceptance of the oneness of mankind is the first fundamental prerequisite for reorganization and administration of the world as one country, the home of humankind. Universal acceptance of this spiritual principle is essential to any successful attempt to establish world peace. It should therefore be universally proclaimed, taught in schools, and constantly asserted in every nation as preparation for the organic change in the structure of society which it implies. In the Bahá’í view, recognition of the oneness of mankind “calls for no less than the reconstruction and the demilitarization of the whole civilized world—a world organically unified in all the essential aspects of its life, its political machinery, its spiritual aspiration, its trade and finance, its script and language, and yet infinite in the diversity of the national characteristics of its federated units.” Elaborating the implications of this pivotal principle, Shoghi Effendi, the Guardian of the Bahá’í Faith, commented in 1931 that: “Far from aiming at the subversion of the existing foundations of society, it seeks to broaden its basis, to remold its institutions in a manner consonant with the needs of an ever-changing world. It can conflict with no legitimate allegiances, nor can it undermine essential loyalties. Its purpose is neither to stifle the flame of a sane and intelligent patriotism in men’s hearts, nor to abolish the system The Promise of World Peace by Universal House of Justice Edition 1, (September 2006) 2. The Content may not be modified or altered in any way except to change the font or appearance; 3. The Content must be used solely for a non-commercial purpose. For permission to publish, transmit, display or otherwise use the Content for any commercial purpose, please contact us (http://reference.bahai.org/en/contact.html). Baha’i Terms of Use I II III IV To the Peoples of the World: The Great Peace towards which people of good will throughout the centuries have inclined their hearts, of which seers and poets for countless generations have expressed their vision, and for which from age to age the sacred scriptures of mankind have constantly held the promise, is now at long last within the reach of the nations. For the first time in history it is possible for everyone to view the entire planet, with all its myriad diversified peoples, in one perspective. World peace is not only possible but inevitable. It is the next stage in the evolution of this planet—in the words of one great thinker, “the planetization of mankind”. Whether peace is to be reached only after unimaginable horrors precipitated by humanity’s stubborn clinging to old patterns of behaviour, or is to be embraced now by an act of consultative will, is the choice before all who inhabit the earth. At this critical juncture when the intractable problems confronting nations have been fused into one common concern for the whole world, failure to stem the tide of conflict and disorder would be unconscionably irresponsible. Among the favourable signs are the steadily growing strength of the steps towards world order taken initially near the beginning of this century in the creation of the League of Nations, succeeded by the more broadly based United

What has separated faith from reason and science from religion?

Erroneous interpretations

of the earth must needs attend it, and, participating in its deliberations, must consider such ways and means as will lay the foundations of the world’s Great Peace amongst men.” The courage, the resolution, the pure motive, the selfless love of one people for another—all the spiritual and moral qualities required for effecting this momentous step towards peace are focused on the will to act. And it is towards arousing the necessary volition that earnest consideration must be given to the reality of man, namely, his thought. To understand the relevance of this potent reality is also to appreciate the social necessity of actualizing its unique value through candid, dispassionate and cordial consultation, and of acting upon the results of this process. Bahá’u’lláh insistently drew attention to the virtues and indispensability of consultation for ordering human affairs. He said: “Consultation bestows greater awareness and transmutes conjecture into certitude. It is a shining light which, in a dark world, leads the way and guides. For everything there is and will continue to be a station of perfection and maturity. The maturity of the gift of understanding is made manifest through consultation.” The very attempt to achieve peace through the consultative action he proposed can release such a salutary spirit among the peoples of the earth that no power could resist the final, triumphal outcome. Concerning the proceedings for this world gathering, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, the son of Bahá’u’lláh and authorized interpreter of his teachings, offered these insights: “They must make the Cause of Peace the object of general consultation, and seek by every means in their power to establish a Union of the nations of the world. They must conclude a binding treaty and establish a covenant, the provisions of which shall be sound, inviolable and definite. They must proclaim it to all and practical approaches. A fresh look at the problem is required, entailing consultation with experts from a wide spectrum of disciplines, devoid of economic and ideological polemics, and involving the people directly affected in the decisions that must urgently be made. It is an issue that is bound up not only with the necessity for eliminating extremes of wealth and poverty but also with those spiritual verities the understanding of which can produce a new universal attitude. Fostering such an attitude is itself a major part of the solution. Unbridled nationalism, as distinguished from a sane and legitimate patriotism, must give way to a wider loyalty, to the love of humanity as a whole. Bahá’u’lláh’s statement is: “The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens.” The concept of world citizenship is a direct result of the contraction of the world into a single neighbourhood through scientific advances and of the indisputable interdependence of nations. Love of all the world’s peoples does not exclude love of one’s country. The advantage of the part in a world society is best served by promoting the advantage of the whole. Current international activities in various fields which nurture mutual affection and a sense of solidarity among peoples need greatly to be increased. Religious strife, throughout history, has been the cause of innumerable wars and conflicts, a major blight to progress, and is increasingly abhorrent to the people of all faiths and no faith. Followers of all religions must be willing to face the basic questions which this strife raises, and to arrive at clear answers. How are the differences between them to be resolved, both in theory and in practice? The challenge facing the religious leaders of mankind is to contemplate, with hearts filled with the spirit of compassion and a desire ultimate reality, that unknowable essence of essences called God. The religions brought to mankind by a succession of spiritual luminaries have been the primary link between humanity and that ultimate reality, and have galvanized and refined mankind’s capacity to achieve spiritual success together with social progress. No serious attempt to set human affairs aright, to achieve world peace, can ignore religion. Man’s perception and practice of it are largely the stuff of history. An eminent historian described religion as a “faculty of human nature”. That the perversion of this faculty has contributed to much of the confusion in society and the conflicts in and between individuals can hardly be denied. But neither can any fair-minded observer discount the preponderating influence exerted by religion on the vital expressions of civilization. Furthermore, its indispensability to social order has repeatedly been demonstrated by its direct effect on laws and morality. Writing of religion as a social force, Bahá’u’lláh said: “Religion is the greatest of all means for the establishment of order in the world and for the peaceful contentment of all that dwell therein.” Referring to the eclipse or corruption of religion, he wrote: “Should the lamp of religion be obscured, chaos and confusion will ensue, and the lights of fairness, of justice, of tranquillity and peace cease to shine.” In an enumeration of such consequences the Bahá’í writings point out that the “perversion of human nature, the degradation of human conduct, the corruption and dissolution of human institutions, reveal themselves, under such circumstances, in their worst and most revolting aspects. Human character is debased, confidence is shaken, the nerves of discipline are relaxed, the voice of human conscience is stilled, the sense of decency and shame is obscured, conceptions of duty, of solidarity, of reciprocity and loyalty are distorted, and the very world in which harmony and co-operation will prevail. World order can be founded only on an unshakeable consciousness of the oneness of mankind, a spiritual truth which all the human sciences confirm. Anthropology, physiology, psychology, recognize only one human species, albeit infinitely varied in the secondary aspects of life. Recognition of this truth requires abandonment of prejudice—prejudice of every kind—race, class, colour, creed, nation, sex, degree of material civilization, everything which enables people to consider themselves superior to others. Acceptance of the oneness of mankind is the first fundamental prerequisite for reorganization and administration of the world as one country, the home of humankind. Universal acceptance of this spiritual principle is essential to any successful attempt to establish world peace. It should therefore be universally proclaimed, taught in schools, and constantly asserted in every nation as preparation for the organic change in the structure of society which it implies. In the Bahá’í view, recognition of the oneness of mankind “calls for no less than the reconstruction and the demilitarization of the whole civilized world—a world organically unified in all the essential aspects of its life, its political machinery, its spiritual aspiration, its trade and finance, its script and language, and yet infinite in the diversity of the national characteristics of its federated units.” Elaborating the implications of this pivotal principle, Shoghi Effendi, the Guardian of the Bahá’í Faith, commented in 1931 that: “Far from aiming at the subversion of the existing foundations of society, it seeks to broaden its basis, to remold its institutions in a manner consonant with the needs of an ever-changing world. It can conflict with no legitimate allegiances, nor can it undermine essential loyalties. Its purpose is neither to stifle the flame of a sane and intelligent patriotism in men’s hearts, nor to abolish the system The Promise of World Peace by Universal House of Justice Edition 1, (September 2006) 2. The Content may not be modified or altered in any way except to change the font or appearance; 3. The Content must be used solely for a non-commercial purpose. For permission to publish, transmit, display or otherwise use the Content for any commercial purpose, please contact us (http://reference.bahai.org/en/contact.html). Baha’i Terms of Use I II III IV To the Peoples of the World: The Great Peace towards which people of good will throughout the centuries have inclined their hearts, of which seers and poets for countless generations have expressed their vision, and for which from age to age the sacred scriptures of mankind have constantly held the promise, is now at long last within the reach of the nations. For the first time in history it is possible for everyone to view the entire planet, with all its myriad diversified peoples, in one perspective. World peace is not only possible but inevitable. It is the next stage in the evolution of this planet—in the words of one great thinker, “the planetization of mankind”. Whether peace is to be reached only after unimaginable horrors precipitated by humanity’s stubborn clinging to old patterns of behaviour, or is to be embraced now by an act of consultative will, is the choice before all who inhabit the earth. At this critical juncture when the intractable problems confronting nations have been fused into one common concern for the whole world, failure to stem the tide of conflict and disorder would be unconscionably irresponsible. Among the favourable signs are the steadily growing strength of the steps towards world order taken initially near the beginning of this century in the creation of the League of Nations, succeeded by the more broadly based United

Peace can only be achieved by addressing the?

Whole new level of commitment

ultimate reality, that unknowable essence of essences called God. The religions brought to mankind by a succession of spiritual luminaries have been the primary link between humanity and that ultimate reality, and have galvanized and refined mankind’s capacity to achieve spiritual success together with social progress. No serious attempt to set human affairs aright, to achieve world peace, can ignore religion. Man’s perception and practice of it are largely the stuff of history. An eminent historian described religion as a “faculty of human nature”. That the perversion of this faculty has contributed to much of the confusion in society and the conflicts in and between individuals can hardly be denied. But neither can any fair-minded observer discount the preponderating influence exerted by religion on the vital expressions of civilization. Furthermore, its indispensability to social order has repeatedly been demonstrated by its direct effect on laws and morality. Writing of religion as a social force, Bahá’u’lláh said: “Religion is the greatest of all means for the establishment of order in the world and for the peaceful contentment of all that dwell therein.” Referring to the eclipse or corruption of religion, he wrote: “Should the lamp of religion be obscured, chaos and confusion will ensue, and the lights of fairness, of justice, of tranquillity and peace cease to shine.” In an enumeration of such consequences the Bahá’í writings point out that the “perversion of human nature, the degradation of human conduct, the corruption and dissolution of human institutions, reveal themselves, under such circumstances, in their worst and most revolting aspects. Human character is debased, confidence is shaken, the nerves of discipline are relaxed, the voice of human conscience is stilled, the sense of decency and shame is obscured, conceptions of duty, of solidarity, of reciprocity and loyalty are distorted, and the very and practical approaches. A fresh look at the problem is required, entailing consultation with experts from a wide spectrum of disciplines, devoid of economic and ideological polemics, and involving the people directly affected in the decisions that must urgently be made. It is an issue that is bound up not only with the necessity for eliminating extremes of wealth and poverty but also with those spiritual verities the understanding of which can produce a new universal attitude. Fostering such an attitude is itself a major part of the solution. Unbridled nationalism, as distinguished from a sane and legitimate patriotism, must give way to a wider loyalty, to the love of humanity as a whole. Bahá’u’lláh’s statement is: “The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens.” The concept of world citizenship is a direct result of the contraction of the world into a single neighbourhood through scientific advances and of the indisputable interdependence of nations. Love of all the world’s peoples does not exclude love of one’s country. The advantage of the part in a world society is best served by promoting the advantage of the whole. Current international activities in various fields which nurture mutual affection and a sense of solidarity among peoples need greatly to be increased. Religious strife, throughout history, has been the cause of innumerable wars and conflicts, a major blight to progress, and is increasingly abhorrent to the people of all faiths and no faith. Followers of all religions must be willing to face the basic questions which this strife raises, and to arrive at clear answers. How are the differences between them to be resolved, both in theory and in practice? The challenge facing the religious leaders of mankind is to contemplate, with hearts filled with the spirit of compassion and a desire violent and disruptive phenomena associated with it testifies to the spiritual bankruptcy it represents. Indeed, one of the strangest and saddest features of the current outbreak of religious fanaticism is the extent to which, in each case, it is undermining not only the spiritual values which are conducive to the unity of mankind but also those unique moral victories won by the particular religion it purports to serve. However vital a force religion has been in the history of mankind, and however dramatic the current resurgence of militant religious fanaticism, religion and religious institutions have, for many decades, been viewed by increasing numbers of people as irrelevant to the major concerns of the modern world. In its place they have turned either to the hedonistic pursuit of material satisfactions or to the following of man-made ideologies designed to rescue society from the evident evils under which it groans. All too many of these ideologies, alas, instead of embracing the concept of the oneness of mankind and promoting the increase of concord among different peoples, have tended to deify the state, to subordinate the rest of mankind to one nation, race or class, to attempt to suppress all discussion and interchange of ideas, or to callously abandon starving millions to the operations of a market system that all too clearly is aggravating the plight of the majority of mankind, while enabling small sections to live in a condition of affluence scarcely dreamed of by our forebears. How tragic is the record of the substitute faiths that the worldly-wise of our age have created. In the massive disillusionment of entire populations who have been taught to worship at their altars can be read history’s irreversible verdict on their value. The fruits these doctrines have produced, after decades of an increasingly unrestrained exercise divine guidance in human history. Its existence is yet another convincing proof of the practicality of its Founder’s vision of a united world, another evidence that humanity can live as one global society, equal to whatever challenges its coming of age may entail. If the Bahá’í experience can contribute in whatever measure to reinforcing hope in the unity of the human race, we are happy to offer it as a model for study. In contemplating the supreme importance of the task now challenging the entire world, we bow our heads in humility before the awesome majesty of the divine Creator, Who out of His infinite love has created all humanity from the same stock; exalted the gem-like reality of man; honoured it with intellect and wisdom, nobility and immortality; and conferred upon man the “unique distinction and capacity to know Him and to love Him”, a capacity that “must needs be regarded as the generating impulse and the primary purpose underlying the whole of creation.” We hold firmly the conviction that all human beings have been created “to carry forward an ever-advancing civilization”; that “to act like the beasts of the field is unworthy of man”; that the virtues that befit human dignity are trustworthiness, forbearance, mercy, compassion and loving-kindness towards all peoples. We reaffirm the belief that the “potentialities inherent in the station of man, the full measure of his destiny on earth, the innate excellence of his reality, must all be manifested in this promised Day of God.” These are the motivations for our unshakeable faith that unity and peace are the attainable goal towards which humanity is striving. At this writing, the expectant voices of Bahá’ís can be heard despite the persecution they still endure in the land in which their Faith was born. By their example of steadfast hope, they bear witness to the belief that the imminent realization of this age-old dream of peace is now, by virtue of the transforming effects of Bahá’u’lláh’s revelation, invested with the force of divine authority. Thus we convey to you not only a vision in words: we summon the power of deeds of faith and sacrifice; we convey the anxious plea of our co-religionists everywhere for peace and unity. We join with all who are the victims of aggression, all who yearn for an end to conflict and contention, all whose devotion to principles of peace and world order promotes the ennobling purposes for which humanity was called into being by an all-loving Creator. In the earnestness of our desire to impart to you the fervour of our hope and the depth of our confidence, we cite the emphatic promise of Bahá’u’lláh: “These fruitless strifes, these ruinous wars shall pass away, and the ‘Most Great Peace’ shall come.”

There is an inordinate disparity between the rich and the?

Poor

ultimate reality, that unknowable essence of essences called God. The religions brought to mankind by a succession of spiritual luminaries have been the primary link between humanity and that ultimate reality, and have galvanized and refined mankind’s capacity to achieve spiritual success together with social progress. No serious attempt to set human affairs aright, to achieve world peace, can ignore religion. Man’s perception and practice of it are largely the stuff of history. An eminent historian described religion as a “faculty of human nature”. That the perversion of this faculty has contributed to much of the confusion in society and the conflicts in and between individuals can hardly be denied. But neither can any fair-minded observer discount the preponderating influence exerted by religion on the vital expressions of civilization. Furthermore, its indispensability to social order has repeatedly been demonstrated by its direct effect on laws and morality. Writing of religion as a social force, Bahá’u’lláh said: “Religion is the greatest of all means for the establishment of order in the world and for the peaceful contentment of all that dwell therein.” Referring to the eclipse or corruption of religion, he wrote: “Should the lamp of religion be obscured, chaos and confusion will ensue, and the lights of fairness, of justice, of tranquillity and peace cease to shine.” In an enumeration of such consequences the Bahá’í writings point out that the “perversion of human nature, the degradation of human conduct, the corruption and dissolution of human institutions, reveal themselves, under such circumstances, in their worst and most revolting aspects. Human character is debased, confidence is shaken, the nerves of discipline are relaxed, the voice of human conscience is stilled, the sense of decency and shame is obscured, conceptions of duty, of solidarity, of reciprocity and loyalty are distorted, and the very of the earth must needs attend it, and, participating in its deliberations, must consider such ways and means as will lay the foundations of the world’s Great Peace amongst men.” The courage, the resolution, the pure motive, the selfless love of one people for another—all the spiritual and moral qualities required for effecting this momentous step towards peace are focused on the will to act. And it is towards arousing the necessary volition that earnest consideration must be given to the reality of man, namely, his thought. To understand the relevance of this potent reality is also to appreciate the social necessity of actualizing its unique value through candid, dispassionate and cordial consultation, and of acting upon the results of this process. Bahá’u’lláh insistently drew attention to the virtues and indispensability of consultation for ordering human affairs. He said: “Consultation bestows greater awareness and transmutes conjecture into certitude. It is a shining light which, in a dark world, leads the way and guides. For everything there is and will continue to be a station of perfection and maturity. The maturity of the gift of understanding is made manifest through consultation.” The very attempt to achieve peace through the consultative action he proposed can release such a salutary spirit among the peoples of the earth that no power could resist the final, triumphal outcome. Concerning the proceedings for this world gathering, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, the son of Bahá’u’lláh and authorized interpreter of his teachings, offered these insights: “They must make the Cause of Peace the object of general consultation, and seek by every means in their power to establish a Union of the nations of the world. They must conclude a binding treaty and establish a covenant, the provisions of which shall be sound, inviolable and definite. They must proclaim it to all and practical approaches. A fresh look at the problem is required, entailing consultation with experts from a wide spectrum of disciplines, devoid of economic and ideological polemics, and involving the people directly affected in the decisions that must urgently be made. It is an issue that is bound up not only with the necessity for eliminating extremes of wealth and poverty but also with those spiritual verities the understanding of which can produce a new universal attitude. Fostering such an attitude is itself a major part of the solution. Unbridled nationalism, as distinguished from a sane and legitimate patriotism, must give way to a wider loyalty, to the love of humanity as a whole. Bahá’u’lláh’s statement is: “The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens.” The concept of world citizenship is a direct result of the contraction of the world into a single neighbourhood through scientific advances and of the indisputable interdependence of nations. Love of all the world’s peoples does not exclude love of one’s country. The advantage of the part in a world society is best served by promoting the advantage of the whole. Current international activities in various fields which nurture mutual affection and a sense of solidarity among peoples need greatly to be increased. Religious strife, throughout history, has been the cause of innumerable wars and conflicts, a major blight to progress, and is increasingly abhorrent to the people of all faiths and no faith. Followers of all religions must be willing to face the basic questions which this strife raises, and to arrive at clear answers. How are the differences between them to be resolved, both in theory and in practice? The challenge facing the religious leaders of mankind is to contemplate, with hearts filled with the spirit of compassion and a desire divine guidance in human history. Its existence is yet another convincing proof of the practicality of its Founder’s vision of a united world, another evidence that humanity can live as one global society, equal to whatever challenges its coming of age may entail. If the Bahá’í experience can contribute in whatever measure to reinforcing hope in the unity of the human race, we are happy to offer it as a model for study. In contemplating the supreme importance of the task now challenging the entire world, we bow our heads in humility before the awesome majesty of the divine Creator, Who out of His infinite love has created all humanity from the same stock; exalted the gem-like reality of man; honoured it with intellect and wisdom, nobility and immortality; and conferred upon man the “unique distinction and capacity to know Him and to love Him”, a capacity that “must needs be regarded as the generating impulse and the primary purpose underlying the whole of creation.” We hold firmly the conviction that all human beings have been created “to carry forward an ever-advancing civilization”; that “to act like the beasts of the field is unworthy of man”; that the virtues that befit human dignity are trustworthiness, forbearance, mercy, compassion and loving-kindness towards all peoples. We reaffirm the belief that the “potentialities inherent in the station of man, the full measure of his destiny on earth, the innate excellence of his reality, must all be manifested in this promised Day of God.” These are the motivations for our unshakeable faith that unity and peace are the attainable goal towards which humanity is striving. At this writing, the expectant voices of Bahá’ís can be heard despite the persecution they still endure in the land in which their Faith was born. By their example violent and disruptive phenomena associated with it testifies to the spiritual bankruptcy it represents. Indeed, one of the strangest and saddest features of the current outbreak of religious fanaticism is the extent to which, in each case, it is undermining not only the spiritual values which are conducive to the unity of mankind but also those unique moral victories won by the particular religion it purports to serve. However vital a force religion has been in the history of mankind, and however dramatic the current resurgence of militant religious fanaticism, religion and religious institutions have, for many decades, been viewed by increasing numbers of people as irrelevant to the major concerns of the modern world. In its place they have turned either to the hedonistic pursuit of material satisfactions or to the following of man-made ideologies designed to rescue society from the evident evils under which it groans. All too many of these ideologies, alas, instead of embracing the concept of the oneness of mankind and promoting the increase of concord among different peoples, have tended to deify the state, to subordinate the rest of mankind to one nation, race or class, to attempt to suppress all discussion and interchange of ideas, or to callously abandon starving millions to the operations of a market system that all too clearly is aggravating the plight of the majority of mankind, while enabling small sections to live in a condition of affluence scarcely dreamed of by our forebears. How tragic is the record of the substitute faiths that the worldly-wise of our age have created. In the massive disillusionment of entire populations who have been taught to worship at their altars can be read history’s irreversible verdict on their value. The fruits these doctrines have produced, after decades of an increasingly unrestrained exercise

There is a fundamental lack of what between people?

Communication

and practical approaches. A fresh look at the problem is required, entailing consultation with experts from a wide spectrum of disciplines, devoid of economic and ideological polemics, and involving the people directly affected in the decisions that must urgently be made. It is an issue that is bound up not only with the necessity for eliminating extremes of wealth and poverty but also with those spiritual verities the understanding of which can produce a new universal attitude. Fostering such an attitude is itself a major part of the solution. Unbridled nationalism, as distinguished from a sane and legitimate patriotism, must give way to a wider loyalty, to the love of humanity as a whole. Bahá’u’lláh’s statement is: “The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens.” The concept of world citizenship is a direct result of the contraction of the world into a single neighbourhood through scientific advances and of the indisputable interdependence of nations. Love of all the world’s peoples does not exclude love of one’s country. The advantage of the part in a world society is best served by promoting the advantage of the whole. Current international activities in various fields which nurture mutual affection and a sense of solidarity among peoples need greatly to be increased. Religious strife, throughout history, has been the cause of innumerable wars and conflicts, a major blight to progress, and is increasingly abhorrent to the people of all faiths and no faith. Followers of all religions must be willing to face the basic questions which this strife raises, and to arrive at clear answers. How are the differences between them to be resolved, both in theory and in practice? The challenge facing the religious leaders of mankind is to contemplate, with hearts filled with the spirit of compassion and a desire of the earth must needs attend it, and, participating in its deliberations, must consider such ways and means as will lay the foundations of the world’s Great Peace amongst men.” The courage, the resolution, the pure motive, the selfless love of one people for another—all the spiritual and moral qualities required for effecting this momentous step towards peace are focused on the will to act. And it is towards arousing the necessary volition that earnest consideration must be given to the reality of man, namely, his thought. To understand the relevance of this potent reality is also to appreciate the social necessity of actualizing its unique value through candid, dispassionate and cordial consultation, and of acting upon the results of this process. Bahá’u’lláh insistently drew attention to the virtues and indispensability of consultation for ordering human affairs. He said: “Consultation bestows greater awareness and transmutes conjecture into certitude. It is a shining light which, in a dark world, leads the way and guides. For everything there is and will continue to be a station of perfection and maturity. The maturity of the gift of understanding is made manifest through consultation.” The very attempt to achieve peace through the consultative action he proposed can release such a salutary spirit among the peoples of the earth that no power could resist the final, triumphal outcome. Concerning the proceedings for this world gathering, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, the son of Bahá’u’lláh and authorized interpreter of his teachings, offered these insights: “They must make the Cause of Peace the object of general consultation, and seek by every means in their power to establish a Union of the nations of the world. They must conclude a binding treaty and establish a covenant, the provisions of which shall be sound, inviolable and definite. They must proclaim it to all ultimate reality, that unknowable essence of essences called God. The religions brought to mankind by a succession of spiritual luminaries have been the primary link between humanity and that ultimate reality, and have galvanized and refined mankind’s capacity to achieve spiritual success together with social progress. No serious attempt to set human affairs aright, to achieve world peace, can ignore religion. Man’s perception and practice of it are largely the stuff of history. An eminent historian described religion as a “faculty of human nature”. That the perversion of this faculty has contributed to much of the confusion in society and the conflicts in and between individuals can hardly be denied. But neither can any fair-minded observer discount the preponderating influence exerted by religion on the vital expressions of civilization. Furthermore, its indispensability to social order has repeatedly been demonstrated by its direct effect on laws and morality. Writing of religion as a social force, Bahá’u’lláh said: “Religion is the greatest of all means for the establishment of order in the world and for the peaceful contentment of all that dwell therein.” Referring to the eclipse or corruption of religion, he wrote: “Should the lamp of religion be obscured, chaos and confusion will ensue, and the lights of fairness, of justice, of tranquillity and peace cease to shine.” In an enumeration of such consequences the Bahá’í writings point out that the “perversion of human nature, the degradation of human conduct, the corruption and dissolution of human institutions, reveal themselves, under such circumstances, in their worst and most revolting aspects. Human character is debased, confidence is shaken, the nerves of discipline are relaxed, the voice of human conscience is stilled, the sense of decency and shame is obscured, conceptions of duty, of solidarity, of reciprocity and loyalty are distorted, and the very world in which harmony and co-operation will prevail. World order can be founded only on an unshakeable consciousness of the oneness of mankind, a spiritual truth which all the human sciences confirm. Anthropology, physiology, psychology, recognize only one human species, albeit infinitely varied in the secondary aspects of life. Recognition of this truth requires abandonment of prejudice—prejudice of every kind—race, class, colour, creed, nation, sex, degree of material civilization, everything which enables people to consider themselves superior to others. Acceptance of the oneness of mankind is the first fundamental prerequisite for reorganization and administration of the world as one country, the home of humankind. Universal acceptance of this spiritual principle is essential to any successful attempt to establish world peace. It should therefore be universally proclaimed, taught in schools, and constantly asserted in every nation as preparation for the organic change in the structure of society which it implies. In the Bahá’í view, recognition of the oneness of mankind “calls for no less than the reconstruction and the demilitarization of the whole civilized world—a world organically unified in all the essential aspects of its life, its political machinery, its spiritual aspiration, its trade and finance, its script and language, and yet infinite in the diversity of the national characteristics of its federated units.” Elaborating the implications of this pivotal principle, Shoghi Effendi, the Guardian of the Bahá’í Faith, commented in 1931 that: “Far from aiming at the subversion of the existing foundations of society, it seeks to broaden its basis, to remold its institutions in a manner consonant with the needs of an ever-changing world. It can conflict with no legitimate allegiances, nor can it undermine essential loyalties. Its purpose is neither to stifle the flame of a sane and intelligent patriotism in men’s hearts, nor to abolish the system standard education of every child. A fundamental lack of communication between peoples seriously undermines efforts towards world peace. Adopting an international auxiliary language would go far to resolving this problem and necessitates the most urgent attention. Two points bear emphasizing in all these issues. One is that the abolition of war is not simply a matter of signing treaties and protocols; it is a complex task requiring a new level of commitment to resolving issues not customarily associated with the pursuit of peace. Based on political agreements alone, the idea of collective security is a chimera. The other point is that the primary challenge in dealing with issues of peace is to raise the context to the level of principle, as distinct from pure pragmatism. For, in essence, peace stems from an inner state supported by a spiritual or moral attitude, and it is chiefly in evoking this attitude that the possibility of enduring solutions can be found. There are spiritual principles, or what some call human values, by which solutions can be found for every social problem. Any well-intentioned group can in a general sense devise practical solutions to its problems, but good intentions and practical knowledge are usually not enough. The essential merit of spiritual principle is that it not only presents a perspective which harmonizes with that which is immanent in human nature, it also induces an attitude, a dynamic, a will, an aspiration, which facilitate the discovery and implementation of practical measures. Leaders of governments and all in authority would be well served in their efforts to solve problems if they would first seek to identify the principles involved and then be guided by them. The primary question to be resolved is how the present world, with its entrenched pattern of conflict, can change to a

Peace must be founded on the understanding that mankind is?

One human family

knees in the shallows. Suddenly a whole school of fish swims by him, moving in unison, like one creature, splitting around Chuck like mercury. He grabs at them desperately. Nothing. On some rocks he sees clusters of limpets. He takes a rock and tries to dislodge one, but it smashes into a soggy mess. Idly, Chuck takes out his wallet. The money is soaked. He lays it out to dry. He finds a PHOTOGRAPH OF KELLY, soaked and mushy. He tries to smooth it out. For a moment he is overcome. His face tightens, his eyes get moist. He stares out to sea. He picks up his wallet again and takes out a credit card. With his finger, he prods around in the mucous-like meat, then tilts up the shell and we see the gooey gray stuff slide off the shell into his mouth. He starts to spit it out. Tries to make himself like it. And he swallow it. But what's the point? Everything that was so valuable before is useless now. Covered in sweat, desperate and exhausted, he throws down his wooden spade. He lies on his back, breathing hard. Pulls his hat over his eyes. He grabs his sharpened stone, begins to attack the clay. For a moment, he feels the weight of his isolation. Then he allows himself a deep breath. There is order now, after all. Time is under control. He freezes, holding his spear motionless. Then he jabs at the crab -- misses! The crab scurries away toward the rocks. Chuck splashes after it, stabbing as he goes, falling, getting up, stabbing again. Suddenly one stab feels different. Chuck carefully lifts up the spear. On the huge jaws open and close. Very slowly the whale moves ahead of the raft, its vast body passing Chuck. Chuck rips a fillet off the line and throws it in front of the whale, which ignores it. The whale slowly sinks, then suddenly arches its huge back and heads straight for the bottom. For a moment, all that remains are the flukes, black and vertical against the dark blue sky. With one swoop, those flukes could destroy Chuck and his raft. But they don't do anything except slowly sink. Then it is gone. We are on Chuck's face as he stares at where the whale had been, the surface marked only by a ring of concentric ripples that reach out and gently rock the raft. He dips his hand into the ocean, splashes some sea water on his face, splutters it out, then licks his lips. He is so thirsty. He looks at the water jug, full now with his own vomit, turns away, begins to work on the sea anchor again. But the work makes him even thirstier. He looks at the jug again. Picks it up. Takes a long drink. Chuck listens. Doesn't hear anything. Chuck picks up the spear, stabs it, misses. Suddenly he has a fish on the end of the spear. It struggles, he scoops it onto the raft, brutally pounds on its head, twists the stone knife into its spine. The struggling stops. Chuck looks at the dead fish and begins to sob. He cries uncontrollably. As he cries he cuts off the head, pulls out the eyeballs, and eats each one. Then he sucks the marrow out of the head. Then takes the heart and eats that. Then eats the liver. As chime of obsidian flakes sways gently. The watch hangs on a stick. The Angel Box has the place of honor on one side. On the other side the Wilson soccer ball rests on a throne of rocks. Seaweed has been placed on the ball as hair. Clam shells have been stuck on for eyes, other shells form a mouth. A tube shell and conch form a pipe. He ties some fiber to a stick, then braids it into string, using both hands and his mouth for the three strands. He ties the string tightly around the shaft. He does his work automatically. As Chuck watches the sunset unfold, watches the whales going by in the darkened water, he takes some roasted eel chips, dips them into the breadfruit paste, and offers one to Wilson. His voice is flat, monotonal. But Wilson declines. He takes a big crunchy bite. PULL BACK as the sun goes down and Chuck reaches into the bowl again and dips an eel skin chip in the dip. Suddenly his shoe breaks! It's sandal made of woven yucca leaves. He bends down and fixes it, then heads on down the ledge. His hands are cut and bruised. He tries to get up, can't. Chuck sits back and examines his foot. His fingers come back covered with blood. He reaches out to steady himself, and leaves a HANDPRINT OF BLOOD on the rock. Chuck sticks the scalpel onto some coals to sterilize it. He holds it over his foot, takes a breath, then jabs in into the wound. The pain is intense. Chuck passes out. He collapses again. He runs into the water and starts to swim. He is so weak, however, he can nods, but there's something he wants to say. That's not all Stan wants to say. But Chuck is limping out the door. Slowly and painfully Chuck enters. He's quite a sight. She stands up. There's a long moment where they look at each other. Then she comes into his arms. Holds him tight. She's part laughing, part crying. Chuck is happy, he's still riding the high. Well, maybe a little, but who cares? He hasn't been hugged or barely touched in so long. She disengages, looks at him with that old smile. He meets her gaze, looks her over with a smile. He notices the ring on her hand. His responses come so quick. Chuck seems blissfully sure of himself. Kelly fishes for a photo, shows it to Chuck. It's a little girl with a dog. Chuck laughs. It is funny, sort of. Stan appears, takes in the scene. The few patients waiting are edged into the corners, trying to look occupied with something else. Stan examines the ropes around the logs. Kelly points at something on the raft. He's not feeling sorry for himself. It's just a fact. They look at the tiny raft. It speaks for itself. Kelly notices the sail, sees the writing on it. Kelly reads it to herself. Her eyes are moist. And he seems really to believe it. And he leaves. This interests Chuck to no end. He tries to put it into words, isn't quite sure how. Kelly looks down at the raft. It's so small. He has something more to say. She waits. And that's the point, isn't it? We are social animals. No man is an island. And the laughter comes again. catches, slowing the raft so that it rides the wave down. The waves come at him high as houses. The raft rides up one side, then plunges down the next. All Chuck can do is hold on. We hear the chirping and squeaking of dolphins. They come close to the raft. Chuck watches them play. Then realizes they are chasing his fish. They drive them along, into the path of another dolphin, who darts in and rips into the dorado, turning the water around the raft into churning, bloody foam. He takes his oar and begins beating the water. The killing continues. Suddenly the water is still. One dolphin sticks its head out of the water and stares at Chuck, squeaking. Another dolphin lifts its head up, then another. They squeak to each other, clearly communicating and talking about Chuck. He splashes the water with his oar. They dive, then jump into the air, squeaking as they go. They're gone. He begins to laugh. He rolls over onto his stomach and tries to do a pushup. He can't. Collapses onto the raft. Tries to do another pushup. Can't. He rolls over. He looks at the ocean. They're in a line of garbage, a thick slick of debris dumped off of ships. He closes his eyes. After a minute they come open. They slowly close again. His eyes come open again. He hums Beethoven's fifth. BA BA BA BUM. He hums to himself, begins to sing, Beatles. He pulls in the loose sea anchor rope, which is covered with barnacles. He scrapes the barnacle off the rope into the water jug, then sips it. The sun is setting, huge rays shoot out across the sky. Out of

Who is the main character?

Chuck Noland

knees in the shallows. Suddenly a whole school of fish swims by him, moving in unison, like one creature, splitting around Chuck like mercury. He grabs at them desperately. Nothing. On some rocks he sees clusters of limpets. He takes a rock and tries to dislodge one, but it smashes into a soggy mess. Idly, Chuck takes out his wallet. The money is soaked. He lays it out to dry. He finds a PHOTOGRAPH OF KELLY, soaked and mushy. He tries to smooth it out. For a moment he is overcome. His face tightens, his eyes get moist. He stares out to sea. He picks up his wallet again and takes out a credit card. With his finger, he prods around in the mucous-like meat, then tilts up the shell and we see the gooey gray stuff slide off the shell into his mouth. He starts to spit it out. Tries to make himself like it. And he swallow it. But what's the point? Everything that was so valuable before is useless now. Covered in sweat, desperate and exhausted, he throws down his wooden spade. He lies on his back, breathing hard. Pulls his hat over his eyes. He grabs his sharpened stone, begins to attack the clay. For a moment, he feels the weight of his isolation. Then he allows himself a deep breath. There is order now, after all. Time is under control. He freezes, holding his spear motionless. Then he jabs at the crab -- misses! The crab scurries away toward the rocks. Chuck splashes after it, stabbing as he goes, falling, getting up, stabbing again. Suddenly one stab feels different. Chuck carefully lifts up the spear. On the catches, slowing the raft so that it rides the wave down. The waves come at him high as houses. The raft rides up one side, then plunges down the next. All Chuck can do is hold on. We hear the chirping and squeaking of dolphins. They come close to the raft. Chuck watches them play. Then realizes they are chasing his fish. They drive them along, into the path of another dolphin, who darts in and rips into the dorado, turning the water around the raft into churning, bloody foam. He takes his oar and begins beating the water. The killing continues. Suddenly the water is still. One dolphin sticks its head out of the water and stares at Chuck, squeaking. Another dolphin lifts its head up, then another. They squeak to each other, clearly communicating and talking about Chuck. He splashes the water with his oar. They dive, then jump into the air, squeaking as they go. They're gone. He begins to laugh. He rolls over onto his stomach and tries to do a pushup. He can't. Collapses onto the raft. Tries to do another pushup. Can't. He rolls over. He looks at the ocean. They're in a line of garbage, a thick slick of debris dumped off of ships. He closes his eyes. After a minute they come open. They slowly close again. His eyes come open again. He hums Beethoven's fifth. BA BA BA BUM. He hums to himself, begins to sing, Beatles. He pulls in the loose sea anchor rope, which is covered with barnacles. He scrapes the barnacle off the rope into the water jug, then sips it. The sun is setting, huge rays shoot out across the sky. Out of He draws a yellow spiral on his leg, then takes red and makes jagged lightning bolts on his chest on either side of the hand. Then his inner struggle ends. Then comes the FedEx box with the angel wings. Then Wilson. And he gently leads the raft into the lagoon. He jumps onto the raft, begins to paddle out toward where the surf crashes onto the reef. Chuck watches, times the waves, paddles like mad. He's committed. SCRAPE goes the first barrel, then the second, riding the receding wave. He's out! But the next wave is already surging forward. It smashes the raft against the reef! Coconuts and foodstuffs hurtle off the raft! The barrels cushion the impact. The raft tilts, spins, but stays outside the reef! The ropes holding the jugs of water break! The water sweeps overboard! The wave recedes again. Chuck recovers, paddles with all his strength, and then he's clear of the breakers! For a long moment he floats on the rollers, getting his breath. The water jugs float away, carried by the waves back into the lagoon. Chuck could go back and get them. If he were being prudent, he definitely would. But he's out. He might never get back out again. He stares at the lagoon and the receding water jugs. Then he stares at the island. Goodbye to all that. He turns and begins raising the sail. And we pull back until the ocean swallows the tiny raft and then we TILT DOWN AND... Chuck is gaunt, his clothes rotted. He lies looking over the side of the raft, spear in one hand, staring intently at the water. Dorados swim like specters, flashing and darting. Chuck stabs chime of obsidian flakes sways gently. The watch hangs on a stick. The Angel Box has the place of honor on one side. On the other side the Wilson soccer ball rests on a throne of rocks. Seaweed has been placed on the ball as hair. Clam shells have been stuck on for eyes, other shells form a mouth. A tube shell and conch form a pipe. He ties some fiber to a stick, then braids it into string, using both hands and his mouth for the three strands. He ties the string tightly around the shaft. He does his work automatically. As Chuck watches the sunset unfold, watches the whales going by in the darkened water, he takes some roasted eel chips, dips them into the breadfruit paste, and offers one to Wilson. His voice is flat, monotonal. But Wilson declines. He takes a big crunchy bite. PULL BACK as the sun goes down and Chuck reaches into the bowl again and dips an eel skin chip in the dip. Suddenly his shoe breaks! It's sandal made of woven yucca leaves. He bends down and fixes it, then heads on down the ledge. His hands are cut and bruised. He tries to get up, can't. Chuck sits back and examines his foot. His fingers come back covered with blood. He reaches out to steady himself, and leaves a HANDPRINT OF BLOOD on the rock. Chuck sticks the scalpel onto some coals to sterilize it. He holds it over his foot, takes a breath, then jabs in into the wound. The pain is intense. Chuck passes out. He collapses again. He runs into the water and starts to swim. He is so weak, however, he can moving. No matter how hard he swims, the raft seems to recede from him. Finally he reaches it, hangs on the side, breathing hard, choking, crying. He struggles to pull himself on board. But he is weak, so weak. He can't do it. Summoning some primitive reserve of strength, he tries again. This time he slides on. He lies on the raft, panting. Then with all his strength he pulls himself to his feet, holds on to the mast, scans the ocean for Wilson. Nothing but waves. This is too much. Chuck starts to cry. The sun breaks through the clouds. With what strength he has left, Chuck raises the canopy, fastens it. He sits in the meager shade, his head between his knees. Closes his eyes. Just for a minute. There, riding right beside his raft, is a ship, a huge rusty tanker. Someone shouts down in a language we don't understand. Chuck sits up, can't believe it. Struggles to cover himself. The crew gathers around. None of them speak English, but there is a spontaneous outburst of human connection. One man brings some water. Another a blanket. Another some warm tea. Chuck sits there, shivering now. Deliriously happy. Delirious. Except for one. And on that bed we see Chuck, in a blue hospital gown. An IV drips into his arm. He plays idly with the remote control of the bed. He raises the head, then the foot. He pushes another button and the knee rest bends the bed again. A DOCTOR enters, carrying a thick chart. Chuck gives him a big manic grin. Malcolm MacDowell in "A Clockwork Orange." He checks his blood work records. Chuck has been trying not to laugh.

What company doe the main character work for?

FedEx

knees in the shallows. Suddenly a whole school of fish swims by him, moving in unison, like one creature, splitting around Chuck like mercury. He grabs at them desperately. Nothing. On some rocks he sees clusters of limpets. He takes a rock and tries to dislodge one, but it smashes into a soggy mess. Idly, Chuck takes out his wallet. The money is soaked. He lays it out to dry. He finds a PHOTOGRAPH OF KELLY, soaked and mushy. He tries to smooth it out. For a moment he is overcome. His face tightens, his eyes get moist. He stares out to sea. He picks up his wallet again and takes out a credit card. With his finger, he prods around in the mucous-like meat, then tilts up the shell and we see the gooey gray stuff slide off the shell into his mouth. He starts to spit it out. Tries to make himself like it. And he swallow it. But what's the point? Everything that was so valuable before is useless now. Covered in sweat, desperate and exhausted, he throws down his wooden spade. He lies on his back, breathing hard. Pulls his hat over his eyes. He grabs his sharpened stone, begins to attack the clay. For a moment, he feels the weight of his isolation. Then he allows himself a deep breath. There is order now, after all. Time is under control. He freezes, holding his spear motionless. Then he jabs at the crab -- misses! The crab scurries away toward the rocks. Chuck splashes after it, stabbing as he goes, falling, getting up, stabbing again. Suddenly one stab feels different. Chuck carefully lifts up the spear. On the nods, but there's something he wants to say. That's not all Stan wants to say. But Chuck is limping out the door. Slowly and painfully Chuck enters. He's quite a sight. She stands up. There's a long moment where they look at each other. Then she comes into his arms. Holds him tight. She's part laughing, part crying. Chuck is happy, he's still riding the high. Well, maybe a little, but who cares? He hasn't been hugged or barely touched in so long. She disengages, looks at him with that old smile. He meets her gaze, looks her over with a smile. He notices the ring on her hand. His responses come so quick. Chuck seems blissfully sure of himself. Kelly fishes for a photo, shows it to Chuck. It's a little girl with a dog. Chuck laughs. It is funny, sort of. Stan appears, takes in the scene. The few patients waiting are edged into the corners, trying to look occupied with something else. Stan examines the ropes around the logs. Kelly points at something on the raft. He's not feeling sorry for himself. It's just a fact. They look at the tiny raft. It speaks for itself. Kelly notices the sail, sees the writing on it. Kelly reads it to herself. Her eyes are moist. And he seems really to believe it. And he leaves. This interests Chuck to no end. He tries to put it into words, isn't quite sure how. Kelly looks down at the raft. It's so small. He has something more to say. She waits. And that's the point, isn't it? We are social animals. No man is an island. And the laughter comes again. huge jaws open and close. Very slowly the whale moves ahead of the raft, its vast body passing Chuck. Chuck rips a fillet off the line and throws it in front of the whale, which ignores it. The whale slowly sinks, then suddenly arches its huge back and heads straight for the bottom. For a moment, all that remains are the flukes, black and vertical against the dark blue sky. With one swoop, those flukes could destroy Chuck and his raft. But they don't do anything except slowly sink. Then it is gone. We are on Chuck's face as he stares at where the whale had been, the surface marked only by a ring of concentric ripples that reach out and gently rock the raft. He dips his hand into the ocean, splashes some sea water on his face, splutters it out, then licks his lips. He is so thirsty. He looks at the water jug, full now with his own vomit, turns away, begins to work on the sea anchor again. But the work makes him even thirstier. He looks at the jug again. Picks it up. Takes a long drink. Chuck listens. Doesn't hear anything. Chuck picks up the spear, stabs it, misses. Suddenly he has a fish on the end of the spear. It struggles, he scoops it onto the raft, brutally pounds on its head, twists the stone knife into its spine. The struggling stops. Chuck looks at the dead fish and begins to sob. He cries uncontrollably. As he cries he cuts off the head, pulls out the eyeballs, and eats each one. Then he sucks the marrow out of the head. Then takes the heart and eats that. Then eats the liver. As chime of obsidian flakes sways gently. The watch hangs on a stick. The Angel Box has the place of honor on one side. On the other side the Wilson soccer ball rests on a throne of rocks. Seaweed has been placed on the ball as hair. Clam shells have been stuck on for eyes, other shells form a mouth. A tube shell and conch form a pipe. He ties some fiber to a stick, then braids it into string, using both hands and his mouth for the three strands. He ties the string tightly around the shaft. He does his work automatically. As Chuck watches the sunset unfold, watches the whales going by in the darkened water, he takes some roasted eel chips, dips them into the breadfruit paste, and offers one to Wilson. His voice is flat, monotonal. But Wilson declines. He takes a big crunchy bite. PULL BACK as the sun goes down and Chuck reaches into the bowl again and dips an eel skin chip in the dip. Suddenly his shoe breaks! It's sandal made of woven yucca leaves. He bends down and fixes it, then heads on down the ledge. His hands are cut and bruised. He tries to get up, can't. Chuck sits back and examines his foot. His fingers come back covered with blood. He reaches out to steady himself, and leaves a HANDPRINT OF BLOOD on the rock. Chuck sticks the scalpel onto some coals to sterilize it. He holds it over his foot, takes a breath, then jabs in into the wound. The pain is intense. Chuck passes out. He collapses again. He runs into the water and starts to swim. He is so weak, however, he can He draws a yellow spiral on his leg, then takes red and makes jagged lightning bolts on his chest on either side of the hand. Then his inner struggle ends. Then comes the FedEx box with the angel wings. Then Wilson. And he gently leads the raft into the lagoon. He jumps onto the raft, begins to paddle out toward where the surf crashes onto the reef. Chuck watches, times the waves, paddles like mad. He's committed. SCRAPE goes the first barrel, then the second, riding the receding wave. He's out! But the next wave is already surging forward. It smashes the raft against the reef! Coconuts and foodstuffs hurtle off the raft! The barrels cushion the impact. The raft tilts, spins, but stays outside the reef! The ropes holding the jugs of water break! The water sweeps overboard! The wave recedes again. Chuck recovers, paddles with all his strength, and then he's clear of the breakers! For a long moment he floats on the rollers, getting his breath. The water jugs float away, carried by the waves back into the lagoon. Chuck could go back and get them. If he were being prudent, he definitely would. But he's out. He might never get back out again. He stares at the lagoon and the receding water jugs. Then he stares at the island. Goodbye to all that. He turns and begins raising the sail. And we pull back until the ocean swallows the tiny raft and then we TILT DOWN AND... Chuck is gaunt, his clothes rotted. He lies looking over the side of the raft, spear in one hand, staring intently at the water. Dorados swim like specters, flashing and darting. Chuck stabs

Who is the main character's girlfriend?

Kelly Frears

knees in the shallows. Suddenly a whole school of fish swims by him, moving in unison, like one creature, splitting around Chuck like mercury. He grabs at them desperately. Nothing. On some rocks he sees clusters of limpets. He takes a rock and tries to dislodge one, but it smashes into a soggy mess. Idly, Chuck takes out his wallet. The money is soaked. He lays it out to dry. He finds a PHOTOGRAPH OF KELLY, soaked and mushy. He tries to smooth it out. For a moment he is overcome. His face tightens, his eyes get moist. He stares out to sea. He picks up his wallet again and takes out a credit card. With his finger, he prods around in the mucous-like meat, then tilts up the shell and we see the gooey gray stuff slide off the shell into his mouth. He starts to spit it out. Tries to make himself like it. And he swallow it. But what's the point? Everything that was so valuable before is useless now. Covered in sweat, desperate and exhausted, he throws down his wooden spade. He lies on his back, breathing hard. Pulls his hat over his eyes. He grabs his sharpened stone, begins to attack the clay. For a moment, he feels the weight of his isolation. Then he allows himself a deep breath. There is order now, after all. Time is under control. He freezes, holding his spear motionless. Then he jabs at the crab -- misses! The crab scurries away toward the rocks. Chuck splashes after it, stabbing as he goes, falling, getting up, stabbing again. Suddenly one stab feels different. Chuck carefully lifts up the spear. On the chime of obsidian flakes sways gently. The watch hangs on a stick. The Angel Box has the place of honor on one side. On the other side the Wilson soccer ball rests on a throne of rocks. Seaweed has been placed on the ball as hair. Clam shells have been stuck on for eyes, other shells form a mouth. A tube shell and conch form a pipe. He ties some fiber to a stick, then braids it into string, using both hands and his mouth for the three strands. He ties the string tightly around the shaft. He does his work automatically. As Chuck watches the sunset unfold, watches the whales going by in the darkened water, he takes some roasted eel chips, dips them into the breadfruit paste, and offers one to Wilson. His voice is flat, monotonal. But Wilson declines. He takes a big crunchy bite. PULL BACK as the sun goes down and Chuck reaches into the bowl again and dips an eel skin chip in the dip. Suddenly his shoe breaks! It's sandal made of woven yucca leaves. He bends down and fixes it, then heads on down the ledge. His hands are cut and bruised. He tries to get up, can't. Chuck sits back and examines his foot. His fingers come back covered with blood. He reaches out to steady himself, and leaves a HANDPRINT OF BLOOD on the rock. Chuck sticks the scalpel onto some coals to sterilize it. He holds it over his foot, takes a breath, then jabs in into the wound. The pain is intense. Chuck passes out. He collapses again. He runs into the water and starts to swim. He is so weak, however, he can He draws a yellow spiral on his leg, then takes red and makes jagged lightning bolts on his chest on either side of the hand. Then his inner struggle ends. Then comes the FedEx box with the angel wings. Then Wilson. And he gently leads the raft into the lagoon. He jumps onto the raft, begins to paddle out toward where the surf crashes onto the reef. Chuck watches, times the waves, paddles like mad. He's committed. SCRAPE goes the first barrel, then the second, riding the receding wave. He's out! But the next wave is already surging forward. It smashes the raft against the reef! Coconuts and foodstuffs hurtle off the raft! The barrels cushion the impact. The raft tilts, spins, but stays outside the reef! The ropes holding the jugs of water break! The water sweeps overboard! The wave recedes again. Chuck recovers, paddles with all his strength, and then he's clear of the breakers! For a long moment he floats on the rollers, getting his breath. The water jugs float away, carried by the waves back into the lagoon. Chuck could go back and get them. If he were being prudent, he definitely would. But he's out. He might never get back out again. He stares at the lagoon and the receding water jugs. Then he stares at the island. Goodbye to all that. He turns and begins raising the sail. And we pull back until the ocean swallows the tiny raft and then we TILT DOWN AND... Chuck is gaunt, his clothes rotted. He lies looking over the side of the raft, spear in one hand, staring intently at the water. Dorados swim like specters, flashing and darting. Chuck stabs the input. Stan steers Chuck down the steps as the cheers continue. At the bottom of the steps Roger steps forward. The two brothers embrace each other. After a moment Roger disengages. Mary gives Chuck a hug. He looks around at the crowds. Stan nudges Chuck. Time to go to the podium. Stan and Chuck head for the podium. All the loaders and operators and package scanners begin to applaud. Chuck smiles, then laughs, getting into the emotion. He keeps up an almost indecipherable babble underneath the cheering. Occasionally he sees someone he knows. He steps to the microphone and addresses the SuperHub. As he talks, we stay on Chuck, who is taking in this amazing scene, not really listening. He hands the plaque to Chuck. Chuck acknowledges the cheers of the crowd. He laughs, a short brittle laugh, composes himself. He looks over at the hub. He points at some high tech equipment on the edge of the shed. He looks around at everyone, doesn't know what else to say. The tension is broken. Everyone laughs. Phil Steele motions with his hand. Let it be done. As he heads for the car, REPORTERS shout questions. Stan drives with a certain aggressiveness. Chuck looks out at the traffic, at all the activity, at the vast intricate anthill of humanity going everywhere and nowhere. He swerves into another lane. He grins, cuts across to the exit. Chuck stares at him. Are you kidding? He works some keys, waits. He holds out a badge. He starts to pull up the data. He gets back on his bicycle and rides away. The waitress sets a plate down in front of Chuck, turns to watch. On the TV we see only make a few strokes. He tries to yell as he swims... Choking and weak, he turns back and drags himself up on the beach. In the b.g., the sail dwindles into the distance. Furious, he kicks his signal fire, scattering the burnt-out coals. He slowly extends his hand and covers it, then pulls it away. Traces it with his fingers. Chuck covers his hand with paint and makes a handprint on the wall of the cave. He stands back and looks at it. Chuck picks up Wilson, thinks. He takes some charcoal out of his fire and draws eyebrows on the ball. Then, he mashes some berries, dips his fingers in the juice, and makes lips. He sticks shells on with clay for eyes. Then he looks at the face. He sits back and regards his companion. He gestures around the cave at the new paintings. But Wilson doesn't have an opinion. Idly Chuck takes down the Angel Box. For a long time he studies the wings on it. With a stick, he tries to draw a similar wing on the dusty floor of the cave. Dissatisfied, he wipes it away. He looks at the Angel Box. Casually he reaches over and cuts it open with a stone knife. Inside he finds two bottles of green salsa. And a letter. He reads over it. Visibly moved, Chuck puts down the letter. Chuck dips his finger into one of the bowls of colors and streaks it slowly across his face. To exorcise his loneliness, he will paint on the most expressive canvas there is: his own body. Chuck takes white paint and covers his hand. Then he presses it into his chest and makes a handprint.

Where does Chuck live?

Memphis, Tennesse

knees in the shallows. Suddenly a whole school of fish swims by him, moving in unison, like one creature, splitting around Chuck like mercury. He grabs at them desperately. Nothing. On some rocks he sees clusters of limpets. He takes a rock and tries to dislodge one, but it smashes into a soggy mess. Idly, Chuck takes out his wallet. The money is soaked. He lays it out to dry. He finds a PHOTOGRAPH OF KELLY, soaked and mushy. He tries to smooth it out. For a moment he is overcome. His face tightens, his eyes get moist. He stares out to sea. He picks up his wallet again and takes out a credit card. With his finger, he prods around in the mucous-like meat, then tilts up the shell and we see the gooey gray stuff slide off the shell into his mouth. He starts to spit it out. Tries to make himself like it. And he swallow it. But what's the point? Everything that was so valuable before is useless now. Covered in sweat, desperate and exhausted, he throws down his wooden spade. He lies on his back, breathing hard. Pulls his hat over his eyes. He grabs his sharpened stone, begins to attack the clay. For a moment, he feels the weight of his isolation. Then he allows himself a deep breath. There is order now, after all. Time is under control. He freezes, holding his spear motionless. Then he jabs at the crab -- misses! The crab scurries away toward the rocks. Chuck splashes after it, stabbing as he goes, falling, getting up, stabbing again. Suddenly one stab feels different. Chuck carefully lifts up the spear. On the tries to blow on the mouth tubes for his life jacket. Can't do it! Puff. Puff. Shit! John motions frantically for Chuck to pull on the automatic inflators on his jacket. Chuck fumbles for them. Huge palettes shift and groan, one BREAKS FREE, banging violently against the side of the plane, spilling out its boxes. Then it swings and KNOCKS Chuck on the head! He goes down! Another CONTROLLER tracks a giant computer screen. The signal flashes, but is strangely still compared to the others, which are moving. The tide gently rocks him, laps at his face. He chokes. Slowly he gets to his knees. Vomits seawater, big heaves. He rolls over, sits down. Dazed. Still confused. Where am I? What happened? Chuck's first instinct is to check the time. He looks at his watch, taps it in frustration. Then he looks around, and we look with him. Chuck takes off his life jacket, sits down in the shade, makes himself comfortable, and waits. We HEAR from the dark thickets a STRANGE NOISE. Rustling in the leaves. Something crashing in the trees, or is it a wave? A jolt of adrenaline courses through Chuck's body. He lurches to his feet. We HEAR the noises again. Chuck edges toward the rocks at the barb of the hook. Keeping his eye on the thicket, he bends down and picks up a stone. His first weapon. In the rocks he finds a piece of driftwood. He picks it up in his other hand. He backs between two rocks and stands facing the thicket, every sense alert. A cloud passes over the moon. The shadow streaks across Chuck's anxious face. He draws a yellow spiral on his leg, then takes red and makes jagged lightning bolts on his chest on either side of the hand. Then his inner struggle ends. Then comes the FedEx box with the angel wings. Then Wilson. And he gently leads the raft into the lagoon. He jumps onto the raft, begins to paddle out toward where the surf crashes onto the reef. Chuck watches, times the waves, paddles like mad. He's committed. SCRAPE goes the first barrel, then the second, riding the receding wave. He's out! But the next wave is already surging forward. It smashes the raft against the reef! Coconuts and foodstuffs hurtle off the raft! The barrels cushion the impact. The raft tilts, spins, but stays outside the reef! The ropes holding the jugs of water break! The water sweeps overboard! The wave recedes again. Chuck recovers, paddles with all his strength, and then he's clear of the breakers! For a long moment he floats on the rollers, getting his breath. The water jugs float away, carried by the waves back into the lagoon. Chuck could go back and get them. If he were being prudent, he definitely would. But he's out. He might never get back out again. He stares at the lagoon and the receding water jugs. Then he stares at the island. Goodbye to all that. He turns and begins raising the sail. And we pull back until the ocean swallows the tiny raft and then we TILT DOWN AND... Chuck is gaunt, his clothes rotted. He lies looking over the side of the raft, spear in one hand, staring intently at the water. Dorados swim like specters, flashing and darting. Chuck stabs he is chewing, he cuts the meat into strips. When he is done, he takes the backbone, breaks it, and sucks on it. Fish scales shine in his hair, blood covers his chest. He reaches out to touch the fish strips. His hand is glowing too. Suddenly he sees other lights. A ship. A ship is out there. And he hears it, a humming in deep register. He waves his hands. He yells. His voice cracks, we can barely hear it over the ocean. The lights move on. His raft is rocked by the wake, rocked hard. Chuck is thrown into the water! He comes to the surface, sputtering. Where is the raft? He looks one way, then another. Darkness. This is the worst. He turns again in the water. There, dimly, he can see the glow from the fish he killed. The glow saves his life. He swims toward it. He pulls himself back on the raft. He lies there exhausted, the glow from the phosphorescence casting a greenish light on his face. Little bits of electricity jump off the mast. Saint Elmos fire jumps around Chuck's hand. Fascinated, he holds out his hand. The fire jumps from his hand to the mast. Suddenly lightning shoots from the sky and strikes the ocean! A huge spout of water explodes like a depth charge. The CRACK is intense, then rolls away. Chuck stares, then realizes the danger and throws himself down on the raft. Suddenly a wall of rain sweeps over him and the ocean begins to roll. The thunder is deafening. Lightning flashes bursts through the rain. Frantic, Chuck lets out the sea anchor as the raft scuds down a huge wave. The anchor pills. WHALES. He sees whales. Leaping. Broaching. Spouting. Water pouring off fins and flukes. Moving. Going somewhere. Chuck stares at them, stares until the ocean darkens and he can see them no more. It's late now. Leaving, he takes one last look, as he always does. And another remarkable sight greets his eyes. There, on the horizon, just below the evening star, is a...LIGHT. He stares at it, fixed. But then he stares at it really hard. ...then slowly falls with a CRASH! Chuck holds his surgeon's saw over the stump. He walks to another tree and begins to saw his way into the trunk. Chuck sews several designer dresses together with needle and suturing thread for a sail. He cuts bamboo for the mast. He carves driftwood for an oar. He fills gourds with water, stores breadfruit and coconut as he sings "Fly Me to the Moon" to himself. He ties the sail to the mast and extends it with a bamboo boom lashed on with palm fiber and video tape. He ties on the doctor's kit and the FedEx box with the angel wings. He examines his handiwork: a finished raft. He brings out his old life preserver and puts it on, then grabs hold of one corner of the raft to pull it down to the beach. It doesn't budge. He tries to pull it again. Nothing. He leans his back into it and pushes with his legs. Nothing. He collapses on the beach, his breath coming in heaves. He bangs himself on the head, over and over. Chuck's shoulders begin to shake, as he is racked with deep sobs of despair. And then he throws his head back

Where was chuck flying to when his plane crashed?

Malaysia

the empty ocean the Dorados suddenly appear, leaping flashes of silver right by the raft. One Dorado swims right by the raft, broadside. Chuck looks at it, uncomprehending. Then slowly reaches for his spear. Carefully he comes to his feet, then shoots the spear into the fish. Flapping and struggling, it lands on the deck. Chuck pounces on it. The banging continues. He concentrates on his work, then sits back on his heels in amazement. There's another fish inside. He holds that fish up, stares at it, then cuts it open. There's a smaller fish inside it. He pops out an eyeball, then another, and crunches them between his teeth. He takes the heart and liver, starts to eat, then stops. He struggles to remember. He eats them. Chuck picks up the smallest fish. It's half digested. He washes it in the ocean, trigger fish come up and nibble at his fingers. He cuts the small fish and hangs it on the stays. Suddenly something bumps the raft. Hard. Then again. Fins cut the water. SHARKS. A big hammerhead bumps the raft. BadChuck hums the theme from "Jaws." Chuck takes his spear stabs at the shark. Another one circles in, bumps the raft. The shark circles again, that big hammerhead like a nightmare. He stabs at it with his spear. He might as well have stabbed concrete. The shark circle, Chuck stabs again. But the shark is gone. Stabs again and again at the empty ocean. Chuck kneels, wavering, on the raft. The ocean is calm. Suddenly, BUMP. The raft tilts. Chuck hangs on. Then a shark appears, just out of spear range. Its lifeless black eyes seem to stare right through Chuck. knees in the shallows. Suddenly a whole school of fish swims by him, moving in unison, like one creature, splitting around Chuck like mercury. He grabs at them desperately. Nothing. On some rocks he sees clusters of limpets. He takes a rock and tries to dislodge one, but it smashes into a soggy mess. Idly, Chuck takes out his wallet. The money is soaked. He lays it out to dry. He finds a PHOTOGRAPH OF KELLY, soaked and mushy. He tries to smooth it out. For a moment he is overcome. His face tightens, his eyes get moist. He stares out to sea. He picks up his wallet again and takes out a credit card. With his finger, he prods around in the mucous-like meat, then tilts up the shell and we see the gooey gray stuff slide off the shell into his mouth. He starts to spit it out. Tries to make himself like it. And he swallow it. But what's the point? Everything that was so valuable before is useless now. Covered in sweat, desperate and exhausted, he throws down his wooden spade. He lies on his back, breathing hard. Pulls his hat over his eyes. He grabs his sharpened stone, begins to attack the clay. For a moment, he feels the weight of his isolation. Then he allows himself a deep breath. There is order now, after all. Time is under control. He freezes, holding his spear motionless. Then he jabs at the crab -- misses! The crab scurries away toward the rocks. Chuck splashes after it, stabbing as he goes, falling, getting up, stabbing again. Suddenly one stab feels different. Chuck carefully lifts up the spear. On the chime of obsidian flakes sways gently. The watch hangs on a stick. The Angel Box has the place of honor on one side. On the other side the Wilson soccer ball rests on a throne of rocks. Seaweed has been placed on the ball as hair. Clam shells have been stuck on for eyes, other shells form a mouth. A tube shell and conch form a pipe. He ties some fiber to a stick, then braids it into string, using both hands and his mouth for the three strands. He ties the string tightly around the shaft. He does his work automatically. As Chuck watches the sunset unfold, watches the whales going by in the darkened water, he takes some roasted eel chips, dips them into the breadfruit paste, and offers one to Wilson. His voice is flat, monotonal. But Wilson declines. He takes a big crunchy bite. PULL BACK as the sun goes down and Chuck reaches into the bowl again and dips an eel skin chip in the dip. Suddenly his shoe breaks! It's sandal made of woven yucca leaves. He bends down and fixes it, then heads on down the ledge. His hands are cut and bruised. He tries to get up, can't. Chuck sits back and examines his foot. His fingers come back covered with blood. He reaches out to steady himself, and leaves a HANDPRINT OF BLOOD on the rock. Chuck sticks the scalpel onto some coals to sterilize it. He holds it over his foot, takes a breath, then jabs in into the wound. The pain is intense. Chuck passes out. He collapses again. He runs into the water and starts to swim. He is so weak, however, he can catches, slowing the raft so that it rides the wave down. The waves come at him high as houses. The raft rides up one side, then plunges down the next. All Chuck can do is hold on. We hear the chirping and squeaking of dolphins. They come close to the raft. Chuck watches them play. Then realizes they are chasing his fish. They drive them along, into the path of another dolphin, who darts in and rips into the dorado, turning the water around the raft into churning, bloody foam. He takes his oar and begins beating the water. The killing continues. Suddenly the water is still. One dolphin sticks its head out of the water and stares at Chuck, squeaking. Another dolphin lifts its head up, then another. They squeak to each other, clearly communicating and talking about Chuck. He splashes the water with his oar. They dive, then jump into the air, squeaking as they go. They're gone. He begins to laugh. He rolls over onto his stomach and tries to do a pushup. He can't. Collapses onto the raft. Tries to do another pushup. Can't. He rolls over. He looks at the ocean. They're in a line of garbage, a thick slick of debris dumped off of ships. He closes his eyes. After a minute they come open. They slowly close again. His eyes come open again. He hums Beethoven's fifth. BA BA BA BUM. He hums to himself, begins to sing, Beatles. He pulls in the loose sea anchor rope, which is covered with barnacles. He scrapes the barnacle off the rope into the water jug, then sips it. The sun is setting, huge rays shoot out across the sky. Out of huge jaws open and close. Very slowly the whale moves ahead of the raft, its vast body passing Chuck. Chuck rips a fillet off the line and throws it in front of the whale, which ignores it. The whale slowly sinks, then suddenly arches its huge back and heads straight for the bottom. For a moment, all that remains are the flukes, black and vertical against the dark blue sky. With one swoop, those flukes could destroy Chuck and his raft. But they don't do anything except slowly sink. Then it is gone. We are on Chuck's face as he stares at where the whale had been, the surface marked only by a ring of concentric ripples that reach out and gently rock the raft. He dips his hand into the ocean, splashes some sea water on his face, splutters it out, then licks his lips. He is so thirsty. He looks at the water jug, full now with his own vomit, turns away, begins to work on the sea anchor again. But the work makes him even thirstier. He looks at the jug again. Picks it up. Takes a long drink. Chuck listens. Doesn't hear anything. Chuck picks up the spear, stabs it, misses. Suddenly he has a fish on the end of the spear. It struggles, he scoops it onto the raft, brutally pounds on its head, twists the stone knife into its spine. The struggling stops. Chuck looks at the dead fish and begins to sob. He cries uncontrollably. As he cries he cuts off the head, pulls out the eyeballs, and eats each one. Then he sucks the marrow out of the head. Then takes the heart and eats that. Then eats the liver. As

What ocean did Chuck crash into?

The Pacific Ocean

knees in the shallows. Suddenly a whole school of fish swims by him, moving in unison, like one creature, splitting around Chuck like mercury. He grabs at them desperately. Nothing. On some rocks he sees clusters of limpets. He takes a rock and tries to dislodge one, but it smashes into a soggy mess. Idly, Chuck takes out his wallet. The money is soaked. He lays it out to dry. He finds a PHOTOGRAPH OF KELLY, soaked and mushy. He tries to smooth it out. For a moment he is overcome. His face tightens, his eyes get moist. He stares out to sea. He picks up his wallet again and takes out a credit card. With his finger, he prods around in the mucous-like meat, then tilts up the shell and we see the gooey gray stuff slide off the shell into his mouth. He starts to spit it out. Tries to make himself like it. And he swallow it. But what's the point? Everything that was so valuable before is useless now. Covered in sweat, desperate and exhausted, he throws down his wooden spade. He lies on his back, breathing hard. Pulls his hat over his eyes. He grabs his sharpened stone, begins to attack the clay. For a moment, he feels the weight of his isolation. Then he allows himself a deep breath. There is order now, after all. Time is under control. He freezes, holding his spear motionless. Then he jabs at the crab -- misses! The crab scurries away toward the rocks. Chuck splashes after it, stabbing as he goes, falling, getting up, stabbing again. Suddenly one stab feels different. Chuck carefully lifts up the spear. On the chime of obsidian flakes sways gently. The watch hangs on a stick. The Angel Box has the place of honor on one side. On the other side the Wilson soccer ball rests on a throne of rocks. Seaweed has been placed on the ball as hair. Clam shells have been stuck on for eyes, other shells form a mouth. A tube shell and conch form a pipe. He ties some fiber to a stick, then braids it into string, using both hands and his mouth for the three strands. He ties the string tightly around the shaft. He does his work automatically. As Chuck watches the sunset unfold, watches the whales going by in the darkened water, he takes some roasted eel chips, dips them into the breadfruit paste, and offers one to Wilson. His voice is flat, monotonal. But Wilson declines. He takes a big crunchy bite. PULL BACK as the sun goes down and Chuck reaches into the bowl again and dips an eel skin chip in the dip. Suddenly his shoe breaks! It's sandal made of woven yucca leaves. He bends down and fixes it, then heads on down the ledge. His hands are cut and bruised. He tries to get up, can't. Chuck sits back and examines his foot. His fingers come back covered with blood. He reaches out to steady himself, and leaves a HANDPRINT OF BLOOD on the rock. Chuck sticks the scalpel onto some coals to sterilize it. He holds it over his foot, takes a breath, then jabs in into the wound. The pain is intense. Chuck passes out. He collapses again. He runs into the water and starts to swim. He is so weak, however, he can He draws a yellow spiral on his leg, then takes red and makes jagged lightning bolts on his chest on either side of the hand. Then his inner struggle ends. Then comes the FedEx box with the angel wings. Then Wilson. And he gently leads the raft into the lagoon. He jumps onto the raft, begins to paddle out toward where the surf crashes onto the reef. Chuck watches, times the waves, paddles like mad. He's committed. SCRAPE goes the first barrel, then the second, riding the receding wave. He's out! But the next wave is already surging forward. It smashes the raft against the reef! Coconuts and foodstuffs hurtle off the raft! The barrels cushion the impact. The raft tilts, spins, but stays outside the reef! The ropes holding the jugs of water break! The water sweeps overboard! The wave recedes again. Chuck recovers, paddles with all his strength, and then he's clear of the breakers! For a long moment he floats on the rollers, getting his breath. The water jugs float away, carried by the waves back into the lagoon. Chuck could go back and get them. If he were being prudent, he definitely would. But he's out. He might never get back out again. He stares at the lagoon and the receding water jugs. Then he stares at the island. Goodbye to all that. He turns and begins raising the sail. And we pull back until the ocean swallows the tiny raft and then we TILT DOWN AND... Chuck is gaunt, his clothes rotted. He lies looking over the side of the raft, spear in one hand, staring intently at the water. Dorados swim like specters, flashing and darting. Chuck stabs end is a squirming crab. He walks carefully with it to the beach. Lowering the spear, he lets the crab slip off. It darts toward the water. Chuck heads it off, trying to avoid the snapping claws. He kicks it back toward the beach, then slams a rock down on it. He twists off a crab claw, expecting to see flaky white meat. But a crab has an exoskeleton. The flesh simply pours out, like mucous. This is too much. He needs the next step, from the raw to the cooked. The crucial next step from primitive man to the beginnings of civilization. Chuck positions a makeshift drill in a hole he has scooped out in a piece of driftwood. He spins the drill with great effort. Nothing. He quits, exhausted. He looks at his hands. They are raw and blistered. He feels like Job. He walks over and picks a few boxes up from the P. Chuck tears another box open. Out slide some legal papers covered with Post-its. In quick cuts, we see him dump out computer memory boards, some designer dresses, flowers, a pair of roller blades, a script with a red cover -- which he never reads. He takes a long drink from his canteen, and flinches. His tooth is starting to hurt. He fishes some Tylenol out of the surgeon's bag and takes two. Very carefully Chuck shaves with the surgeon's scalpel. Chuck checks out his new appearance in the water. Much better. A clean start now. He starts to rub again. He breathes hard, sweat pours off his face. He is really going for it, what the hell! A tiny wisp of smoke only make a few strokes. He tries to yell as he swims... Choking and weak, he turns back and drags himself up on the beach. In the b.g., the sail dwindles into the distance. Furious, he kicks his signal fire, scattering the burnt-out coals. He slowly extends his hand and covers it, then pulls it away. Traces it with his fingers. Chuck covers his hand with paint and makes a handprint on the wall of the cave. He stands back and looks at it. Chuck picks up Wilson, thinks. He takes some charcoal out of his fire and draws eyebrows on the ball. Then, he mashes some berries, dips his fingers in the juice, and makes lips. He sticks shells on with clay for eyes. Then he looks at the face. He sits back and regards his companion. He gestures around the cave at the new paintings. But Wilson doesn't have an opinion. Idly Chuck takes down the Angel Box. For a long time he studies the wings on it. With a stick, he tries to draw a similar wing on the dusty floor of the cave. Dissatisfied, he wipes it away. He looks at the Angel Box. Casually he reaches over and cuts it open with a stone knife. Inside he finds two bottles of green salsa. And a letter. He reads over it. Visibly moved, Chuck puts down the letter. Chuck dips his finger into one of the bowls of colors and streaks it slowly across his face. To exorcise his loneliness, he will paint on the most expressive canvas there is: his own body. Chuck takes white paint and covers his hand. Then he presses it into his chest and makes a handprint.

What does Chuck do with the body of the pilot?

He buries it.

chime of obsidian flakes sways gently. The watch hangs on a stick. The Angel Box has the place of honor on one side. On the other side the Wilson soccer ball rests on a throne of rocks. Seaweed has been placed on the ball as hair. Clam shells have been stuck on for eyes, other shells form a mouth. A tube shell and conch form a pipe. He ties some fiber to a stick, then braids it into string, using both hands and his mouth for the three strands. He ties the string tightly around the shaft. He does his work automatically. As Chuck watches the sunset unfold, watches the whales going by in the darkened water, he takes some roasted eel chips, dips them into the breadfruit paste, and offers one to Wilson. His voice is flat, monotonal. But Wilson declines. He takes a big crunchy bite. PULL BACK as the sun goes down and Chuck reaches into the bowl again and dips an eel skin chip in the dip. Suddenly his shoe breaks! It's sandal made of woven yucca leaves. He bends down and fixes it, then heads on down the ledge. His hands are cut and bruised. He tries to get up, can't. Chuck sits back and examines his foot. His fingers come back covered with blood. He reaches out to steady himself, and leaves a HANDPRINT OF BLOOD on the rock. Chuck sticks the scalpel onto some coals to sterilize it. He holds it over his foot, takes a breath, then jabs in into the wound. The pain is intense. Chuck passes out. He collapses again. He runs into the water and starts to swim. He is so weak, however, he can only make a few strokes. He tries to yell as he swims... Choking and weak, he turns back and drags himself up on the beach. In the b.g., the sail dwindles into the distance. Furious, he kicks his signal fire, scattering the burnt-out coals. He slowly extends his hand and covers it, then pulls it away. Traces it with his fingers. Chuck covers his hand with paint and makes a handprint on the wall of the cave. He stands back and looks at it. Chuck picks up Wilson, thinks. He takes some charcoal out of his fire and draws eyebrows on the ball. Then, he mashes some berries, dips his fingers in the juice, and makes lips. He sticks shells on with clay for eyes. Then he looks at the face. He sits back and regards his companion. He gestures around the cave at the new paintings. But Wilson doesn't have an opinion. Idly Chuck takes down the Angel Box. For a long time he studies the wings on it. With a stick, he tries to draw a similar wing on the dusty floor of the cave. Dissatisfied, he wipes it away. He looks at the Angel Box. Casually he reaches over and cuts it open with a stone knife. Inside he finds two bottles of green salsa. And a letter. He reads over it. Visibly moved, Chuck puts down the letter. Chuck dips his finger into one of the bowls of colors and streaks it slowly across his face. To exorcise his loneliness, he will paint on the most expressive canvas there is: his own body. Chuck takes white paint and covers his hand. Then he presses it into his chest and makes a handprint. an Australian correspondent standing on Chuck's beach. Chuck is staring at the screen, seeing his cave, seeing all those years. On the screen we see a photograph of Chuck. The waitress looks over at Chuck. The other clients look at him too. The waitress comes over. Chuck looks down at his doodling. Hesitates. Then signs his name. Chuck's Mom, dressed in white with a hairnet, enters a windowed office in the b.g. Through the window we see her hug Chuck. Chuck gestures, no, I'm full. She puts down the spoon. He looks around the house, everything in its place. His mother has been here for forty years. There's a big crack running down from the ceiling. She studies him for a moment. He does, but that's not it entirely. She looks at him. She knows her boy. She looks at him, thinks about this. A WOMAN, BETTINA, answers the door -- THE woman from the beginning. She wears cut-off jeans and a blue work shirt covered with paint. There's a tattoo on her ankle. The woman stares in disbelief at the package she hasn't seen in years and never expected to see again. Chuck displays a FedEx badge. Bettina notices Chuck's bicycle. Bettina stares at the package, her own memories coming back. She holds the box and studies him for a long moment. Something -- the look on his face, the extraordinary reappearance of this long-lost package -- makes her curious. She lets Chuck in the door. They smile awkwardly at each other. She starts to open it. She's opened the package. She pulls out the bottles of salsa and the letter. There is a moment where neither knows what to say. Her eyes start to register recognition. Chuck puts headphones from his Walkman over his ears, puts a mask over his eyes and leans his head back onto the headrest. We hear the Rolling Stones. Chuck pulls off the mask, takes out the earplugs. He manages a groggy grin. Chuck walks to the tank. He tightens a piece of tape that holds the power cord onto the filter, taps the filter with his finger, once, twice...the bubbles start again. But for a couple of fish floating on top of the tank it's too late. Chuck gets out his scoop and slowly skims them off. Drops the dead fish in. Fills the hole. One of them gestures toward a door. Ahead of him we see the flashing green light of a Xerox machine. Surprised, Kelly turns to greet Chuck. She leaps into his arms. Kelly looks over at the Xerox. He lifts up the cover. He pries up one feeder, then another. But Chuck doesn't want to talk. He's focused on the machine. She pulls him out of the machine. He has toner on his fingers. He suddenly looks really tired. He turns to the Xerox in frustration. She looks at him. She licks the last bit of toner off his fingers. She ignores that, stays with the fantasy. And she comes closer to him. She's really close now. They squiggle themselves onto the desk. And then the light goes out. The operations team of FedEx sits around a large table. Each has on a headset. BECCA TWIGG, the business-like senior vice president of Operations, addresses questions to a man -- COLIN PARKER-BOWLES, the European operations manager -- on a LARGE TV SCREEN in front of her. "London" is superimposed on the screen. Colin continues as Chuck, out of breath, he is chewing, he cuts the meat into strips. When he is done, he takes the backbone, breaks it, and sucks on it. Fish scales shine in his hair, blood covers his chest. He reaches out to touch the fish strips. His hand is glowing too. Suddenly he sees other lights. A ship. A ship is out there. And he hears it, a humming in deep register. He waves his hands. He yells. His voice cracks, we can barely hear it over the ocean. The lights move on. His raft is rocked by the wake, rocked hard. Chuck is thrown into the water! He comes to the surface, sputtering. Where is the raft? He looks one way, then another. Darkness. This is the worst. He turns again in the water. There, dimly, he can see the glow from the fish he killed. The glow saves his life. He swims toward it. He pulls himself back on the raft. He lies there exhausted, the glow from the phosphorescence casting a greenish light on his face. Little bits of electricity jump off the mast. Saint Elmos fire jumps around Chuck's hand. Fascinated, he holds out his hand. The fire jumps from his hand to the mast. Suddenly lightning shoots from the sky and strikes the ocean! A huge spout of water explodes like a depth charge. The CRACK is intense, then rolls away. Chuck stares, then realizes the danger and throws himself down on the raft. Suddenly a wall of rain sweeps over him and the ocean begins to roll. The thunder is deafening. Lightning flashes bursts through the rain. Frantic, Chuck lets out the sea anchor as the raft scuds down a huge wave. The anchor

What was drawn on the unopened package?

Angle wings

knees in the shallows. Suddenly a whole school of fish swims by him, moving in unison, like one creature, splitting around Chuck like mercury. He grabs at them desperately. Nothing. On some rocks he sees clusters of limpets. He takes a rock and tries to dislodge one, but it smashes into a soggy mess. Idly, Chuck takes out his wallet. The money is soaked. He lays it out to dry. He finds a PHOTOGRAPH OF KELLY, soaked and mushy. He tries to smooth it out. For a moment he is overcome. His face tightens, his eyes get moist. He stares out to sea. He picks up his wallet again and takes out a credit card. With his finger, he prods around in the mucous-like meat, then tilts up the shell and we see the gooey gray stuff slide off the shell into his mouth. He starts to spit it out. Tries to make himself like it. And he swallow it. But what's the point? Everything that was so valuable before is useless now. Covered in sweat, desperate and exhausted, he throws down his wooden spade. He lies on his back, breathing hard. Pulls his hat over his eyes. He grabs his sharpened stone, begins to attack the clay. For a moment, he feels the weight of his isolation. Then he allows himself a deep breath. There is order now, after all. Time is under control. He freezes, holding his spear motionless. Then he jabs at the crab -- misses! The crab scurries away toward the rocks. Chuck splashes after it, stabbing as he goes, falling, getting up, stabbing again. Suddenly one stab feels different. Chuck carefully lifts up the spear. On the chime of obsidian flakes sways gently. The watch hangs on a stick. The Angel Box has the place of honor on one side. On the other side the Wilson soccer ball rests on a throne of rocks. Seaweed has been placed on the ball as hair. Clam shells have been stuck on for eyes, other shells form a mouth. A tube shell and conch form a pipe. He ties some fiber to a stick, then braids it into string, using both hands and his mouth for the three strands. He ties the string tightly around the shaft. He does his work automatically. As Chuck watches the sunset unfold, watches the whales going by in the darkened water, he takes some roasted eel chips, dips them into the breadfruit paste, and offers one to Wilson. His voice is flat, monotonal. But Wilson declines. He takes a big crunchy bite. PULL BACK as the sun goes down and Chuck reaches into the bowl again and dips an eel skin chip in the dip. Suddenly his shoe breaks! It's sandal made of woven yucca leaves. He bends down and fixes it, then heads on down the ledge. His hands are cut and bruised. He tries to get up, can't. Chuck sits back and examines his foot. His fingers come back covered with blood. He reaches out to steady himself, and leaves a HANDPRINT OF BLOOD on the rock. Chuck sticks the scalpel onto some coals to sterilize it. He holds it over his foot, takes a breath, then jabs in into the wound. The pain is intense. Chuck passes out. He collapses again. He runs into the water and starts to swim. He is so weak, however, he can The shell breaks to smithereens. Coconut milk splashes everywhere. Rotating a nut along its axis and carefully moving his fingers out of the way, he SMASHES the nut again. The shell splits! The precious liquid splashes out. Left inside is a swallow or two, which Chuck laps up eagerly. The milky white liquid dribbles down his face. Clouds scud in front of the sun. Beyond the reef the waves are high and churning. Chuck can see them pound onto the reef. This sinks in. Then Chuck gets an idea. But even that doesn't give him much hope. That sinks in. He stares idly out at the moonlight on the waves. Then not so idly. Something's out there, something floating on the tide. It's a body. Chuck turns it over. It's Al, one of the pilots, his face gray and waterlogged and very dead. He drags the body into the pit. Stares down at it. That could be me. He wants to say more, can't. He scoops some sand over the body. He scoops in some more sand. It's eerily like burying the tropical fish in his back yard. He looks over at the deep woods and down to the rocky point. Comes to a decision. He takes a drink of coconut, picks up his club and a coconut, sticks the stone knife in his pants. He's ready to go. He throws away the husk. He looks up, but the only sunlight reaching him is dappled from the canopy above him. The lava field narrows, forcing Chuck closer to the sea. He passes a series of CAVES, their mouths dark and mysterious and scary. He gives them a wide berth. Chuck end is a squirming crab. He walks carefully with it to the beach. Lowering the spear, he lets the crab slip off. It darts toward the water. Chuck heads it off, trying to avoid the snapping claws. He kicks it back toward the beach, then slams a rock down on it. He twists off a crab claw, expecting to see flaky white meat. But a crab has an exoskeleton. The flesh simply pours out, like mucous. This is too much. He needs the next step, from the raw to the cooked. The crucial next step from primitive man to the beginnings of civilization. Chuck positions a makeshift drill in a hole he has scooped out in a piece of driftwood. He spins the drill with great effort. Nothing. He quits, exhausted. He looks at his hands. They are raw and blistered. He feels like Job. He walks over and picks a few boxes up from the P. Chuck tears another box open. Out slide some legal papers covered with Post-its. In quick cuts, we see him dump out computer memory boards, some designer dresses, flowers, a pair of roller blades, a script with a red cover -- which he never reads. He takes a long drink from his canteen, and flinches. His tooth is starting to hurt. He fishes some Tylenol out of the surgeon's bag and takes two. Very carefully Chuck shaves with the surgeon's scalpel. Chuck checks out his new appearance in the water. Much better. A clean start now. He starts to rub again. He breathes hard, sweat pours off his face. He is really going for it, what the hell! A tiny wisp of smoke He draws a yellow spiral on his leg, then takes red and makes jagged lightning bolts on his chest on either side of the hand. Then his inner struggle ends. Then comes the FedEx box with the angel wings. Then Wilson. And he gently leads the raft into the lagoon. He jumps onto the raft, begins to paddle out toward where the surf crashes onto the reef. Chuck watches, times the waves, paddles like mad. He's committed. SCRAPE goes the first barrel, then the second, riding the receding wave. He's out! But the next wave is already surging forward. It smashes the raft against the reef! Coconuts and foodstuffs hurtle off the raft! The barrels cushion the impact. The raft tilts, spins, but stays outside the reef! The ropes holding the jugs of water break! The water sweeps overboard! The wave recedes again. Chuck recovers, paddles with all his strength, and then he's clear of the breakers! For a long moment he floats on the rollers, getting his breath. The water jugs float away, carried by the waves back into the lagoon. Chuck could go back and get them. If he were being prudent, he definitely would. But he's out. He might never get back out again. He stares at the lagoon and the receding water jugs. Then he stares at the island. Goodbye to all that. He turns and begins raising the sail. And we pull back until the ocean swallows the tiny raft and then we TILT DOWN AND... Chuck is gaunt, his clothes rotted. He lies looking over the side of the raft, spear in one hand, staring intently at the water. Dorados swim like specters, flashing and darting. Chuck stabs

What was Chuck's only companion on the island?

A Wilson volleyball

knees in the shallows. Suddenly a whole school of fish swims by him, moving in unison, like one creature, splitting around Chuck like mercury. He grabs at them desperately. Nothing. On some rocks he sees clusters of limpets. He takes a rock and tries to dislodge one, but it smashes into a soggy mess. Idly, Chuck takes out his wallet. The money is soaked. He lays it out to dry. He finds a PHOTOGRAPH OF KELLY, soaked and mushy. He tries to smooth it out. For a moment he is overcome. His face tightens, his eyes get moist. He stares out to sea. He picks up his wallet again and takes out a credit card. With his finger, he prods around in the mucous-like meat, then tilts up the shell and we see the gooey gray stuff slide off the shell into his mouth. He starts to spit it out. Tries to make himself like it. And he swallow it. But what's the point? Everything that was so valuable before is useless now. Covered in sweat, desperate and exhausted, he throws down his wooden spade. He lies on his back, breathing hard. Pulls his hat over his eyes. He grabs his sharpened stone, begins to attack the clay. For a moment, he feels the weight of his isolation. Then he allows himself a deep breath. There is order now, after all. Time is under control. He freezes, holding his spear motionless. Then he jabs at the crab -- misses! The crab scurries away toward the rocks. Chuck splashes after it, stabbing as he goes, falling, getting up, stabbing again. Suddenly one stab feels different. Chuck carefully lifts up the spear. On the chime of obsidian flakes sways gently. The watch hangs on a stick. The Angel Box has the place of honor on one side. On the other side the Wilson soccer ball rests on a throne of rocks. Seaweed has been placed on the ball as hair. Clam shells have been stuck on for eyes, other shells form a mouth. A tube shell and conch form a pipe. He ties some fiber to a stick, then braids it into string, using both hands and his mouth for the three strands. He ties the string tightly around the shaft. He does his work automatically. As Chuck watches the sunset unfold, watches the whales going by in the darkened water, he takes some roasted eel chips, dips them into the breadfruit paste, and offers one to Wilson. His voice is flat, monotonal. But Wilson declines. He takes a big crunchy bite. PULL BACK as the sun goes down and Chuck reaches into the bowl again and dips an eel skin chip in the dip. Suddenly his shoe breaks! It's sandal made of woven yucca leaves. He bends down and fixes it, then heads on down the ledge. His hands are cut and bruised. He tries to get up, can't. Chuck sits back and examines his foot. His fingers come back covered with blood. He reaches out to steady himself, and leaves a HANDPRINT OF BLOOD on the rock. Chuck sticks the scalpel onto some coals to sterilize it. He holds it over his foot, takes a breath, then jabs in into the wound. The pain is intense. Chuck passes out. He collapses again. He runs into the water and starts to swim. He is so weak, however, he can He draws a yellow spiral on his leg, then takes red and makes jagged lightning bolts on his chest on either side of the hand. Then his inner struggle ends. Then comes the FedEx box with the angel wings. Then Wilson. And he gently leads the raft into the lagoon. He jumps onto the raft, begins to paddle out toward where the surf crashes onto the reef. Chuck watches, times the waves, paddles like mad. He's committed. SCRAPE goes the first barrel, then the second, riding the receding wave. He's out! But the next wave is already surging forward. It smashes the raft against the reef! Coconuts and foodstuffs hurtle off the raft! The barrels cushion the impact. The raft tilts, spins, but stays outside the reef! The ropes holding the jugs of water break! The water sweeps overboard! The wave recedes again. Chuck recovers, paddles with all his strength, and then he's clear of the breakers! For a long moment he floats on the rollers, getting his breath. The water jugs float away, carried by the waves back into the lagoon. Chuck could go back and get them. If he were being prudent, he definitely would. But he's out. He might never get back out again. He stares at the lagoon and the receding water jugs. Then he stares at the island. Goodbye to all that. He turns and begins raising the sail. And we pull back until the ocean swallows the tiny raft and then we TILT DOWN AND... Chuck is gaunt, his clothes rotted. He lies looking over the side of the raft, spear in one hand, staring intently at the water. Dorados swim like specters, flashing and darting. Chuck stabs catches, slowing the raft so that it rides the wave down. The waves come at him high as houses. The raft rides up one side, then plunges down the next. All Chuck can do is hold on. We hear the chirping and squeaking of dolphins. They come close to the raft. Chuck watches them play. Then realizes they are chasing his fish. They drive them along, into the path of another dolphin, who darts in and rips into the dorado, turning the water around the raft into churning, bloody foam. He takes his oar and begins beating the water. The killing continues. Suddenly the water is still. One dolphin sticks its head out of the water and stares at Chuck, squeaking. Another dolphin lifts its head up, then another. They squeak to each other, clearly communicating and talking about Chuck. He splashes the water with his oar. They dive, then jump into the air, squeaking as they go. They're gone. He begins to laugh. He rolls over onto his stomach and tries to do a pushup. He can't. Collapses onto the raft. Tries to do another pushup. Can't. He rolls over. He looks at the ocean. They're in a line of garbage, a thick slick of debris dumped off of ships. He closes his eyes. After a minute they come open. They slowly close again. His eyes come open again. He hums Beethoven's fifth. BA BA BA BUM. He hums to himself, begins to sing, Beatles. He pulls in the loose sea anchor rope, which is covered with barnacles. He scrapes the barnacle off the rope into the water jug, then sips it. The sun is setting, huge rays shoot out across the sky. Out of The shell breaks to smithereens. Coconut milk splashes everywhere. Rotating a nut along its axis and carefully moving his fingers out of the way, he SMASHES the nut again. The shell splits! The precious liquid splashes out. Left inside is a swallow or two, which Chuck laps up eagerly. The milky white liquid dribbles down his face. Clouds scud in front of the sun. Beyond the reef the waves are high and churning. Chuck can see them pound onto the reef. This sinks in. Then Chuck gets an idea. But even that doesn't give him much hope. That sinks in. He stares idly out at the moonlight on the waves. Then not so idly. Something's out there, something floating on the tide. It's a body. Chuck turns it over. It's Al, one of the pilots, his face gray and waterlogged and very dead. He drags the body into the pit. Stares down at it. That could be me. He wants to say more, can't. He scoops some sand over the body. He scoops in some more sand. It's eerily like burying the tropical fish in his back yard. He looks over at the deep woods and down to the rocky point. Comes to a decision. He takes a drink of coconut, picks up his club and a coconut, sticks the stone knife in his pants. He's ready to go. He throws away the husk. He looks up, but the only sunlight reaching him is dappled from the canopy above him. The lava field narrows, forcing Chuck closer to the sea. He passes a series of CAVES, their mouths dark and mysterious and scary. He gives them a wide berth. Chuck

How long was Chuck on the island?

Four years

knees in the shallows. Suddenly a whole school of fish swims by him, moving in unison, like one creature, splitting around Chuck like mercury. He grabs at them desperately. Nothing. On some rocks he sees clusters of limpets. He takes a rock and tries to dislodge one, but it smashes into a soggy mess. Idly, Chuck takes out his wallet. The money is soaked. He lays it out to dry. He finds a PHOTOGRAPH OF KELLY, soaked and mushy. He tries to smooth it out. For a moment he is overcome. His face tightens, his eyes get moist. He stares out to sea. He picks up his wallet again and takes out a credit card. With his finger, he prods around in the mucous-like meat, then tilts up the shell and we see the gooey gray stuff slide off the shell into his mouth. He starts to spit it out. Tries to make himself like it. And he swallow it. But what's the point? Everything that was so valuable before is useless now. Covered in sweat, desperate and exhausted, he throws down his wooden spade. He lies on his back, breathing hard. Pulls his hat over his eyes. He grabs his sharpened stone, begins to attack the clay. For a moment, he feels the weight of his isolation. Then he allows himself a deep breath. There is order now, after all. Time is under control. He freezes, holding his spear motionless. Then he jabs at the crab -- misses! The crab scurries away toward the rocks. Chuck splashes after it, stabbing as he goes, falling, getting up, stabbing again. Suddenly one stab feels different. Chuck carefully lifts up the spear. On the He draws a yellow spiral on his leg, then takes red and makes jagged lightning bolts on his chest on either side of the hand. Then his inner struggle ends. Then comes the FedEx box with the angel wings. Then Wilson. And he gently leads the raft into the lagoon. He jumps onto the raft, begins to paddle out toward where the surf crashes onto the reef. Chuck watches, times the waves, paddles like mad. He's committed. SCRAPE goes the first barrel, then the second, riding the receding wave. He's out! But the next wave is already surging forward. It smashes the raft against the reef! Coconuts and foodstuffs hurtle off the raft! The barrels cushion the impact. The raft tilts, spins, but stays outside the reef! The ropes holding the jugs of water break! The water sweeps overboard! The wave recedes again. Chuck recovers, paddles with all his strength, and then he's clear of the breakers! For a long moment he floats on the rollers, getting his breath. The water jugs float away, carried by the waves back into the lagoon. Chuck could go back and get them. If he were being prudent, he definitely would. But he's out. He might never get back out again. He stares at the lagoon and the receding water jugs. Then he stares at the island. Goodbye to all that. He turns and begins raising the sail. And we pull back until the ocean swallows the tiny raft and then we TILT DOWN AND... Chuck is gaunt, his clothes rotted. He lies looking over the side of the raft, spear in one hand, staring intently at the water. Dorados swim like specters, flashing and darting. Chuck stabs nods, but there's something he wants to say. That's not all Stan wants to say. But Chuck is limping out the door. Slowly and painfully Chuck enters. He's quite a sight. She stands up. There's a long moment where they look at each other. Then she comes into his arms. Holds him tight. She's part laughing, part crying. Chuck is happy, he's still riding the high. Well, maybe a little, but who cares? He hasn't been hugged or barely touched in so long. She disengages, looks at him with that old smile. He meets her gaze, looks her over with a smile. He notices the ring on her hand. His responses come so quick. Chuck seems blissfully sure of himself. Kelly fishes for a photo, shows it to Chuck. It's a little girl with a dog. Chuck laughs. It is funny, sort of. Stan appears, takes in the scene. The few patients waiting are edged into the corners, trying to look occupied with something else. Stan examines the ropes around the logs. Kelly points at something on the raft. He's not feeling sorry for himself. It's just a fact. They look at the tiny raft. It speaks for itself. Kelly notices the sail, sees the writing on it. Kelly reads it to herself. Her eyes are moist. And he seems really to believe it. And he leaves. This interests Chuck to no end. He tries to put it into words, isn't quite sure how. Kelly looks down at the raft. It's so small. He has something more to say. She waits. And that's the point, isn't it? We are social animals. No man is an island. And the laughter comes again. only make a few strokes. He tries to yell as he swims... Choking and weak, he turns back and drags himself up on the beach. In the b.g., the sail dwindles into the distance. Furious, he kicks his signal fire, scattering the burnt-out coals. He slowly extends his hand and covers it, then pulls it away. Traces it with his fingers. Chuck covers his hand with paint and makes a handprint on the wall of the cave. He stands back and looks at it. Chuck picks up Wilson, thinks. He takes some charcoal out of his fire and draws eyebrows on the ball. Then, he mashes some berries, dips his fingers in the juice, and makes lips. He sticks shells on with clay for eyes. Then he looks at the face. He sits back and regards his companion. He gestures around the cave at the new paintings. But Wilson doesn't have an opinion. Idly Chuck takes down the Angel Box. For a long time he studies the wings on it. With a stick, he tries to draw a similar wing on the dusty floor of the cave. Dissatisfied, he wipes it away. He looks at the Angel Box. Casually he reaches over and cuts it open with a stone knife. Inside he finds two bottles of green salsa. And a letter. He reads over it. Visibly moved, Chuck puts down the letter. Chuck dips his finger into one of the bowls of colors and streaks it slowly across his face. To exorcise his loneliness, he will paint on the most expressive canvas there is: his own body. Chuck takes white paint and covers his hand. Then he presses it into his chest and makes a handprint. end is a squirming crab. He walks carefully with it to the beach. Lowering the spear, he lets the crab slip off. It darts toward the water. Chuck heads it off, trying to avoid the snapping claws. He kicks it back toward the beach, then slams a rock down on it. He twists off a crab claw, expecting to see flaky white meat. But a crab has an exoskeleton. The flesh simply pours out, like mucous. This is too much. He needs the next step, from the raw to the cooked. The crucial next step from primitive man to the beginnings of civilization. Chuck positions a makeshift drill in a hole he has scooped out in a piece of driftwood. He spins the drill with great effort. Nothing. He quits, exhausted. He looks at his hands. They are raw and blistered. He feels like Job. He walks over and picks a few boxes up from the P. Chuck tears another box open. Out slide some legal papers covered with Post-its. In quick cuts, we see him dump out computer memory boards, some designer dresses, flowers, a pair of roller blades, a script with a red cover -- which he never reads. He takes a long drink from his canteen, and flinches. His tooth is starting to hurt. He fishes some Tylenol out of the surgeon's bag and takes two. Very carefully Chuck shaves with the surgeon's scalpel. Chuck checks out his new appearance in the water. Much better. A clean start now. He starts to rub again. He breathes hard, sweat pours off his face. He is really going for it, what the hell! A tiny wisp of smoke

Why doesn't Chuck and Kelly get married?

Chuck is too busy.

knees in the shallows. Suddenly a whole school of fish swims by him, moving in unison, like one creature, splitting around Chuck like mercury. He grabs at them desperately. Nothing. On some rocks he sees clusters of limpets. He takes a rock and tries to dislodge one, but it smashes into a soggy mess. Idly, Chuck takes out his wallet. The money is soaked. He lays it out to dry. He finds a PHOTOGRAPH OF KELLY, soaked and mushy. He tries to smooth it out. For a moment he is overcome. His face tightens, his eyes get moist. He stares out to sea. He picks up his wallet again and takes out a credit card. With his finger, he prods around in the mucous-like meat, then tilts up the shell and we see the gooey gray stuff slide off the shell into his mouth. He starts to spit it out. Tries to make himself like it. And he swallow it. But what's the point? Everything that was so valuable before is useless now. Covered in sweat, desperate and exhausted, he throws down his wooden spade. He lies on his back, breathing hard. Pulls his hat over his eyes. He grabs his sharpened stone, begins to attack the clay. For a moment, he feels the weight of his isolation. Then he allows himself a deep breath. There is order now, after all. Time is under control. He freezes, holding his spear motionless. Then he jabs at the crab -- misses! The crab scurries away toward the rocks. Chuck splashes after it, stabbing as he goes, falling, getting up, stabbing again. Suddenly one stab feels different. Chuck carefully lifts up the spear. On the chime of obsidian flakes sways gently. The watch hangs on a stick. The Angel Box has the place of honor on one side. On the other side the Wilson soccer ball rests on a throne of rocks. Seaweed has been placed on the ball as hair. Clam shells have been stuck on for eyes, other shells form a mouth. A tube shell and conch form a pipe. He ties some fiber to a stick, then braids it into string, using both hands and his mouth for the three strands. He ties the string tightly around the shaft. He does his work automatically. As Chuck watches the sunset unfold, watches the whales going by in the darkened water, he takes some roasted eel chips, dips them into the breadfruit paste, and offers one to Wilson. His voice is flat, monotonal. But Wilson declines. He takes a big crunchy bite. PULL BACK as the sun goes down and Chuck reaches into the bowl again and dips an eel skin chip in the dip. Suddenly his shoe breaks! It's sandal made of woven yucca leaves. He bends down and fixes it, then heads on down the ledge. His hands are cut and bruised. He tries to get up, can't. Chuck sits back and examines his foot. His fingers come back covered with blood. He reaches out to steady himself, and leaves a HANDPRINT OF BLOOD on the rock. Chuck sticks the scalpel onto some coals to sterilize it. He holds it over his foot, takes a breath, then jabs in into the wound. The pain is intense. Chuck passes out. He collapses again. He runs into the water and starts to swim. He is so weak, however, he can He draws a yellow spiral on his leg, then takes red and makes jagged lightning bolts on his chest on either side of the hand. Then his inner struggle ends. Then comes the FedEx box with the angel wings. Then Wilson. And he gently leads the raft into the lagoon. He jumps onto the raft, begins to paddle out toward where the surf crashes onto the reef. Chuck watches, times the waves, paddles like mad. He's committed. SCRAPE goes the first barrel, then the second, riding the receding wave. He's out! But the next wave is already surging forward. It smashes the raft against the reef! Coconuts and foodstuffs hurtle off the raft! The barrels cushion the impact. The raft tilts, spins, but stays outside the reef! The ropes holding the jugs of water break! The water sweeps overboard! The wave recedes again. Chuck recovers, paddles with all his strength, and then he's clear of the breakers! For a long moment he floats on the rollers, getting his breath. The water jugs float away, carried by the waves back into the lagoon. Chuck could go back and get them. If he were being prudent, he definitely would. But he's out. He might never get back out again. He stares at the lagoon and the receding water jugs. Then he stares at the island. Goodbye to all that. He turns and begins raising the sail. And we pull back until the ocean swallows the tiny raft and then we TILT DOWN AND... Chuck is gaunt, his clothes rotted. He lies looking over the side of the raft, spear in one hand, staring intently at the water. Dorados swim like specters, flashing and darting. Chuck stabs catches, slowing the raft so that it rides the wave down. The waves come at him high as houses. The raft rides up one side, then plunges down the next. All Chuck can do is hold on. We hear the chirping and squeaking of dolphins. They come close to the raft. Chuck watches them play. Then realizes they are chasing his fish. They drive them along, into the path of another dolphin, who darts in and rips into the dorado, turning the water around the raft into churning, bloody foam. He takes his oar and begins beating the water. The killing continues. Suddenly the water is still. One dolphin sticks its head out of the water and stares at Chuck, squeaking. Another dolphin lifts its head up, then another. They squeak to each other, clearly communicating and talking about Chuck. He splashes the water with his oar. They dive, then jump into the air, squeaking as they go. They're gone. He begins to laugh. He rolls over onto his stomach and tries to do a pushup. He can't. Collapses onto the raft. Tries to do another pushup. Can't. He rolls over. He looks at the ocean. They're in a line of garbage, a thick slick of debris dumped off of ships. He closes his eyes. After a minute they come open. They slowly close again. His eyes come open again. He hums Beethoven's fifth. BA BA BA BUM. He hums to himself, begins to sing, Beatles. He pulls in the loose sea anchor rope, which is covered with barnacles. He scrapes the barnacle off the rope into the water jug, then sips it. The sun is setting, huge rays shoot out across the sky. Out of huge jaws open and close. Very slowly the whale moves ahead of the raft, its vast body passing Chuck. Chuck rips a fillet off the line and throws it in front of the whale, which ignores it. The whale slowly sinks, then suddenly arches its huge back and heads straight for the bottom. For a moment, all that remains are the flukes, black and vertical against the dark blue sky. With one swoop, those flukes could destroy Chuck and his raft. But they don't do anything except slowly sink. Then it is gone. We are on Chuck's face as he stares at where the whale had been, the surface marked only by a ring of concentric ripples that reach out and gently rock the raft. He dips his hand into the ocean, splashes some sea water on his face, splutters it out, then licks his lips. He is so thirsty. He looks at the water jug, full now with his own vomit, turns away, begins to work on the sea anchor again. But the work makes him even thirstier. He looks at the jug again. Picks it up. Takes a long drink. Chuck listens. Doesn't hear anything. Chuck picks up the spear, stabs it, misses. Suddenly he has a fish on the end of the spear. It struggles, he scoops it onto the raft, brutally pounds on its head, twists the stone knife into its spine. The struggling stops. Chuck looks at the dead fish and begins to sob. He cries uncontrollably. As he cries he cuts off the head, pulls out the eyeballs, and eats each one. Then he sucks the marrow out of the head. Then takes the heart and eats that. Then eats the liver. As

How does Chuck end up on an island?

His plane crashes and his life raft washes up on an island.

chime of obsidian flakes sways gently. The watch hangs on a stick. The Angel Box has the place of honor on one side. On the other side the Wilson soccer ball rests on a throne of rocks. Seaweed has been placed on the ball as hair. Clam shells have been stuck on for eyes, other shells form a mouth. A tube shell and conch form a pipe. He ties some fiber to a stick, then braids it into string, using both hands and his mouth for the three strands. He ties the string tightly around the shaft. He does his work automatically. As Chuck watches the sunset unfold, watches the whales going by in the darkened water, he takes some roasted eel chips, dips them into the breadfruit paste, and offers one to Wilson. His voice is flat, monotonal. But Wilson declines. He takes a big crunchy bite. PULL BACK as the sun goes down and Chuck reaches into the bowl again and dips an eel skin chip in the dip. Suddenly his shoe breaks! It's sandal made of woven yucca leaves. He bends down and fixes it, then heads on down the ledge. His hands are cut and bruised. He tries to get up, can't. Chuck sits back and examines his foot. His fingers come back covered with blood. He reaches out to steady himself, and leaves a HANDPRINT OF BLOOD on the rock. Chuck sticks the scalpel onto some coals to sterilize it. He holds it over his foot, takes a breath, then jabs in into the wound. The pain is intense. Chuck passes out. He collapses again. He runs into the water and starts to swim. He is so weak, however, he can knees in the shallows. Suddenly a whole school of fish swims by him, moving in unison, like one creature, splitting around Chuck like mercury. He grabs at them desperately. Nothing. On some rocks he sees clusters of limpets. He takes a rock and tries to dislodge one, but it smashes into a soggy mess. Idly, Chuck takes out his wallet. The money is soaked. He lays it out to dry. He finds a PHOTOGRAPH OF KELLY, soaked and mushy. He tries to smooth it out. For a moment he is overcome. His face tightens, his eyes get moist. He stares out to sea. He picks up his wallet again and takes out a credit card. With his finger, he prods around in the mucous-like meat, then tilts up the shell and we see the gooey gray stuff slide off the shell into his mouth. He starts to spit it out. Tries to make himself like it. And he swallow it. But what's the point? Everything that was so valuable before is useless now. Covered in sweat, desperate and exhausted, he throws down his wooden spade. He lies on his back, breathing hard. Pulls his hat over his eyes. He grabs his sharpened stone, begins to attack the clay. For a moment, he feels the weight of his isolation. Then he allows himself a deep breath. There is order now, after all. Time is under control. He freezes, holding his spear motionless. Then he jabs at the crab -- misses! The crab scurries away toward the rocks. Chuck splashes after it, stabbing as he goes, falling, getting up, stabbing again. Suddenly one stab feels different. Chuck carefully lifts up the spear. On the He draws a yellow spiral on his leg, then takes red and makes jagged lightning bolts on his chest on either side of the hand. Then his inner struggle ends. Then comes the FedEx box with the angel wings. Then Wilson. And he gently leads the raft into the lagoon. He jumps onto the raft, begins to paddle out toward where the surf crashes onto the reef. Chuck watches, times the waves, paddles like mad. He's committed. SCRAPE goes the first barrel, then the second, riding the receding wave. He's out! But the next wave is already surging forward. It smashes the raft against the reef! Coconuts and foodstuffs hurtle off the raft! The barrels cushion the impact. The raft tilts, spins, but stays outside the reef! The ropes holding the jugs of water break! The water sweeps overboard! The wave recedes again. Chuck recovers, paddles with all his strength, and then he's clear of the breakers! For a long moment he floats on the rollers, getting his breath. The water jugs float away, carried by the waves back into the lagoon. Chuck could go back and get them. If he were being prudent, he definitely would. But he's out. He might never get back out again. He stares at the lagoon and the receding water jugs. Then he stares at the island. Goodbye to all that. He turns and begins raising the sail. And we pull back until the ocean swallows the tiny raft and then we TILT DOWN AND... Chuck is gaunt, his clothes rotted. He lies looking over the side of the raft, spear in one hand, staring intently at the water. Dorados swim like specters, flashing and darting. Chuck stabs end is a squirming crab. He walks carefully with it to the beach. Lowering the spear, he lets the crab slip off. It darts toward the water. Chuck heads it off, trying to avoid the snapping claws. He kicks it back toward the beach, then slams a rock down on it. He twists off a crab claw, expecting to see flaky white meat. But a crab has an exoskeleton. The flesh simply pours out, like mucous. This is too much. He needs the next step, from the raw to the cooked. The crucial next step from primitive man to the beginnings of civilization. Chuck positions a makeshift drill in a hole he has scooped out in a piece of driftwood. He spins the drill with great effort. Nothing. He quits, exhausted. He looks at his hands. They are raw and blistered. He feels like Job. He walks over and picks a few boxes up from the P. Chuck tears another box open. Out slide some legal papers covered with Post-its. In quick cuts, we see him dump out computer memory boards, some designer dresses, flowers, a pair of roller blades, a script with a red cover -- which he never reads. He takes a long drink from his canteen, and flinches. His tooth is starting to hurt. He fishes some Tylenol out of the surgeon's bag and takes two. Very carefully Chuck shaves with the surgeon's scalpel. Chuck checks out his new appearance in the water. Much better. A clean start now. He starts to rub again. He breathes hard, sweat pours off his face. He is really going for it, what the hell! A tiny wisp of smoke -- And the other Chuck begins to laugh. The laughter goes on. He stands up and checks the horizon. Suddenly Chuck sees something on the horizon. A bank of clouds. A cone of -- land. He squints, stares again. The clouds part. It looks like -- his island. Chuck doesn't know whether to feel joy or despair. Chuck picks up the soccer ball, holds it up, and stares out at...ocean. He sits back, looks at the mock headstone. He goes on writing. The waves begin to grow, the ocean turns a slate gray. Far above him, great frigate birds circle. Suddenly one dives on a booby which has caught a fish. The great frigate bird swoops all around the booby until, panicked, it drops the fish, which plummets toward the sea. With a graceful dive, the huge bird grabs the fish and then soars up on a thermal, high into the sky. Lightning flashes back and forth across the horizon, which is turning black and dark. Thunder rolls. And then the sharks are gone. Chuck comes to his knees slowly, then a big wave hits. Wilson is swept into the ocean! For a moment Chuck is uncomprehending. He watches as Wilson slowly floats away. Then he dives in to the water! Swims frantically after Wilson. Wilson floats away from him. He swims, but he's so weak. Finally he gets to Wilson. He reaches out, but only pushes the ball farther away. It bobs on the waves. Chuck treads water, exhausted. Where is the raft? Then he turns back the other way. The raft has drifted by him. He can go after Wilson, or he can go after the raft. He swims toward the raft, barely

What are some changes Chuck goes through after four years on the island?

He becomes thinner, dresses in a loincloth, and is better at making a fire.

chime of obsidian flakes sways gently. The watch hangs on a stick. The Angel Box has the place of honor on one side. On the other side the Wilson soccer ball rests on a throne of rocks. Seaweed has been placed on the ball as hair. Clam shells have been stuck on for eyes, other shells form a mouth. A tube shell and conch form a pipe. He ties some fiber to a stick, then braids it into string, using both hands and his mouth for the three strands. He ties the string tightly around the shaft. He does his work automatically. As Chuck watches the sunset unfold, watches the whales going by in the darkened water, he takes some roasted eel chips, dips them into the breadfruit paste, and offers one to Wilson. His voice is flat, monotonal. But Wilson declines. He takes a big crunchy bite. PULL BACK as the sun goes down and Chuck reaches into the bowl again and dips an eel skin chip in the dip. Suddenly his shoe breaks! It's sandal made of woven yucca leaves. He bends down and fixes it, then heads on down the ledge. His hands are cut and bruised. He tries to get up, can't. Chuck sits back and examines his foot. His fingers come back covered with blood. He reaches out to steady himself, and leaves a HANDPRINT OF BLOOD on the rock. Chuck sticks the scalpel onto some coals to sterilize it. He holds it over his foot, takes a breath, then jabs in into the wound. The pain is intense. Chuck passes out. He collapses again. He runs into the water and starts to swim. He is so weak, however, he can Chuck puts headphones from his Walkman over his ears, puts a mask over his eyes and leans his head back onto the headrest. We hear the Rolling Stones. Chuck pulls off the mask, takes out the earplugs. He manages a groggy grin. Chuck walks to the tank. He tightens a piece of tape that holds the power cord onto the filter, taps the filter with his finger, once, twice...the bubbles start again. But for a couple of fish floating on top of the tank it's too late. Chuck gets out his scoop and slowly skims them off. Drops the dead fish in. Fills the hole. One of them gestures toward a door. Ahead of him we see the flashing green light of a Xerox machine. Surprised, Kelly turns to greet Chuck. She leaps into his arms. Kelly looks over at the Xerox. He lifts up the cover. He pries up one feeder, then another. But Chuck doesn't want to talk. He's focused on the machine. She pulls him out of the machine. He has toner on his fingers. He suddenly looks really tired. He turns to the Xerox in frustration. She looks at him. She licks the last bit of toner off his fingers. She ignores that, stays with the fantasy. And she comes closer to him. She's really close now. They squiggle themselves onto the desk. And then the light goes out. The operations team of FedEx sits around a large table. Each has on a headset. BECCA TWIGG, the business-like senior vice president of Operations, addresses questions to a man -- COLIN PARKER-BOWLES, the European operations manager -- on a LARGE TV SCREEN in front of her. "London" is superimposed on the screen. Colin continues as Chuck, out of breath, blackened mess. Chuck stares at it. Chuck displays the puppy. Chuck hesitates just a moment. This is an old, sore subject. He drops the turkey giblets into the trash. Chuck can't believe this. Mom goes to the freezer and takes out some frozen strawberries. Mom mashes the block of frozen strawberries with a fork to separate the strawberries from the ice. Roger grins at him. This is just how they are. They all sit down. Mom brings the slushy frozen strawberries to the table, squirts on some Reddi-whip. Looks pointedly at Chuck. Not a timely topic with Chuck. Chuck takes a bite, winces a little as the cold strawberries hit his teeth. She looks pointedly at Chuck. Chuck finishes the drain pipe. Gives it a thunk with his finger. Chuck is beside it, slumped down on the desk. Asleep. She nods, used to this. The box squawks. The TV screen rolls an imperfect image. A Technician is fiddling with the TV set. The squawk box hums and crackles. Nothing. Chuck turns to the Technician. Chuck turns to Leslie. Chuck looks over at Stan. And Stan is impressed. Kelly can't stay mad. She's half-laughing, half-wanting-to-cry. And then it hits her. She stares at him for a long moment, then at the puppy. He hands her the dog. She kisses the puppy. Chuck settles into his seat. Al has an Australian accent. He puts in his ear plugs and takes out his Valium. He swallows one, then thinks, and swallows two more. Then he turns on his Walkman to the Rolling Stones, puts the mask over his eyes, and, as usual, goes to sleep. Chuck tries to steady himself against the wall. This is nightmarish. Is this really happening? Chuck He draws a yellow spiral on his leg, then takes red and makes jagged lightning bolts on his chest on either side of the hand. Then his inner struggle ends. Then comes the FedEx box with the angel wings. Then Wilson. And he gently leads the raft into the lagoon. He jumps onto the raft, begins to paddle out toward where the surf crashes onto the reef. Chuck watches, times the waves, paddles like mad. He's committed. SCRAPE goes the first barrel, then the second, riding the receding wave. He's out! But the next wave is already surging forward. It smashes the raft against the reef! Coconuts and foodstuffs hurtle off the raft! The barrels cushion the impact. The raft tilts, spins, but stays outside the reef! The ropes holding the jugs of water break! The water sweeps overboard! The wave recedes again. Chuck recovers, paddles with all his strength, and then he's clear of the breakers! For a long moment he floats on the rollers, getting his breath. The water jugs float away, carried by the waves back into the lagoon. Chuck could go back and get them. If he were being prudent, he definitely would. But he's out. He might never get back out again. He stares at the lagoon and the receding water jugs. Then he stares at the island. Goodbye to all that. He turns and begins raising the sail. And we pull back until the ocean swallows the tiny raft and then we TILT DOWN AND... Chuck is gaunt, his clothes rotted. He lies looking over the side of the raft, spear in one hand, staring intently at the water. Dorados swim like specters, flashing and darting. Chuck stabs only make a few strokes. He tries to yell as he swims... Choking and weak, he turns back and drags himself up on the beach. In the b.g., the sail dwindles into the distance. Furious, he kicks his signal fire, scattering the burnt-out coals. He slowly extends his hand and covers it, then pulls it away. Traces it with his fingers. Chuck covers his hand with paint and makes a handprint on the wall of the cave. He stands back and looks at it. Chuck picks up Wilson, thinks. He takes some charcoal out of his fire and draws eyebrows on the ball. Then, he mashes some berries, dips his fingers in the juice, and makes lips. He sticks shells on with clay for eyes. Then he looks at the face. He sits back and regards his companion. He gestures around the cave at the new paintings. But Wilson doesn't have an opinion. Idly Chuck takes down the Angel Box. For a long time he studies the wings on it. With a stick, he tries to draw a similar wing on the dusty floor of the cave. Dissatisfied, he wipes it away. He looks at the Angel Box. Casually he reaches over and cuts it open with a stone knife. Inside he finds two bottles of green salsa. And a letter. He reads over it. Visibly moved, Chuck puts down the letter. Chuck dips his finger into one of the bowls of colors and streaks it slowly across his face. To exorcise his loneliness, he will paint on the most expressive canvas there is: his own body. Chuck takes white paint and covers his hand. Then he presses it into his chest and makes a handprint.

Which package does Chuck leave unopened?

The one with angel wings on it

chime of obsidian flakes sways gently. The watch hangs on a stick. The Angel Box has the place of honor on one side. On the other side the Wilson soccer ball rests on a throne of rocks. Seaweed has been placed on the ball as hair. Clam shells have been stuck on for eyes, other shells form a mouth. A tube shell and conch form a pipe. He ties some fiber to a stick, then braids it into string, using both hands and his mouth for the three strands. He ties the string tightly around the shaft. He does his work automatically. As Chuck watches the sunset unfold, watches the whales going by in the darkened water, he takes some roasted eel chips, dips them into the breadfruit paste, and offers one to Wilson. His voice is flat, monotonal. But Wilson declines. He takes a big crunchy bite. PULL BACK as the sun goes down and Chuck reaches into the bowl again and dips an eel skin chip in the dip. Suddenly his shoe breaks! It's sandal made of woven yucca leaves. He bends down and fixes it, then heads on down the ledge. His hands are cut and bruised. He tries to get up, can't. Chuck sits back and examines his foot. His fingers come back covered with blood. He reaches out to steady himself, and leaves a HANDPRINT OF BLOOD on the rock. Chuck sticks the scalpel onto some coals to sterilize it. He holds it over his foot, takes a breath, then jabs in into the wound. The pain is intense. Chuck passes out. He collapses again. He runs into the water and starts to swim. He is so weak, however, he can the input. Stan steers Chuck down the steps as the cheers continue. At the bottom of the steps Roger steps forward. The two brothers embrace each other. After a moment Roger disengages. Mary gives Chuck a hug. He looks around at the crowds. Stan nudges Chuck. Time to go to the podium. Stan and Chuck head for the podium. All the loaders and operators and package scanners begin to applaud. Chuck smiles, then laughs, getting into the emotion. He keeps up an almost indecipherable babble underneath the cheering. Occasionally he sees someone he knows. He steps to the microphone and addresses the SuperHub. As he talks, we stay on Chuck, who is taking in this amazing scene, not really listening. He hands the plaque to Chuck. Chuck acknowledges the cheers of the crowd. He laughs, a short brittle laugh, composes himself. He looks over at the hub. He points at some high tech equipment on the edge of the shed. He looks around at everyone, doesn't know what else to say. The tension is broken. Everyone laughs. Phil Steele motions with his hand. Let it be done. As he heads for the car, REPORTERS shout questions. Stan drives with a certain aggressiveness. Chuck looks out at the traffic, at all the activity, at the vast intricate anthill of humanity going everywhere and nowhere. He swerves into another lane. He grins, cuts across to the exit. Chuck stares at him. Are you kidding? He works some keys, waits. He holds out a badge. He starts to pull up the data. He gets back on his bicycle and rides away. The waitress sets a plate down in front of Chuck, turns to watch. On the TV we see catches, slowing the raft so that it rides the wave down. The waves come at him high as houses. The raft rides up one side, then plunges down the next. All Chuck can do is hold on. We hear the chirping and squeaking of dolphins. They come close to the raft. Chuck watches them play. Then realizes they are chasing his fish. They drive them along, into the path of another dolphin, who darts in and rips into the dorado, turning the water around the raft into churning, bloody foam. He takes his oar and begins beating the water. The killing continues. Suddenly the water is still. One dolphin sticks its head out of the water and stares at Chuck, squeaking. Another dolphin lifts its head up, then another. They squeak to each other, clearly communicating and talking about Chuck. He splashes the water with his oar. They dive, then jump into the air, squeaking as they go. They're gone. He begins to laugh. He rolls over onto his stomach and tries to do a pushup. He can't. Collapses onto the raft. Tries to do another pushup. Can't. He rolls over. He looks at the ocean. They're in a line of garbage, a thick slick of debris dumped off of ships. He closes his eyes. After a minute they come open. They slowly close again. His eyes come open again. He hums Beethoven's fifth. BA BA BA BUM. He hums to himself, begins to sing, Beatles. He pulls in the loose sea anchor rope, which is covered with barnacles. He scrapes the barnacle off the rope into the water jug, then sips it. The sun is setting, huge rays shoot out across the sky. Out of an Australian correspondent standing on Chuck's beach. Chuck is staring at the screen, seeing his cave, seeing all those years. On the screen we see a photograph of Chuck. The waitress looks over at Chuck. The other clients look at him too. The waitress comes over. Chuck looks down at his doodling. Hesitates. Then signs his name. Chuck's Mom, dressed in white with a hairnet, enters a windowed office in the b.g. Through the window we see her hug Chuck. Chuck gestures, no, I'm full. She puts down the spoon. He looks around the house, everything in its place. His mother has been here for forty years. There's a big crack running down from the ceiling. She studies him for a moment. He does, but that's not it entirely. She looks at him. She knows her boy. She looks at him, thinks about this. A WOMAN, BETTINA, answers the door -- THE woman from the beginning. She wears cut-off jeans and a blue work shirt covered with paint. There's a tattoo on her ankle. The woman stares in disbelief at the package she hasn't seen in years and never expected to see again. Chuck displays a FedEx badge. Bettina notices Chuck's bicycle. Bettina stares at the package, her own memories coming back. She holds the box and studies him for a long moment. Something -- the look on his face, the extraordinary reappearance of this long-lost package -- makes her curious. She lets Chuck in the door. They smile awkwardly at each other. She starts to open it. She's opened the package. She pulls out the bottles of salsa and the letter. There is a moment where neither knows what to say. Her eyes start to register recognition. He draws a yellow spiral on his leg, then takes red and makes jagged lightning bolts on his chest on either side of the hand. Then his inner struggle ends. Then comes the FedEx box with the angel wings. Then Wilson. And he gently leads the raft into the lagoon. He jumps onto the raft, begins to paddle out toward where the surf crashes onto the reef. Chuck watches, times the waves, paddles like mad. He's committed. SCRAPE goes the first barrel, then the second, riding the receding wave. He's out! But the next wave is already surging forward. It smashes the raft against the reef! Coconuts and foodstuffs hurtle off the raft! The barrels cushion the impact. The raft tilts, spins, but stays outside the reef! The ropes holding the jugs of water break! The water sweeps overboard! The wave recedes again. Chuck recovers, paddles with all his strength, and then he's clear of the breakers! For a long moment he floats on the rollers, getting his breath. The water jugs float away, carried by the waves back into the lagoon. Chuck could go back and get them. If he were being prudent, he definitely would. But he's out. He might never get back out again. He stares at the lagoon and the receding water jugs. Then he stares at the island. Goodbye to all that. He turns and begins raising the sail. And we pull back until the ocean swallows the tiny raft and then we TILT DOWN AND... Chuck is gaunt, his clothes rotted. He lies looking over the side of the raft, spear in one hand, staring intently at the water. Dorados swim like specters, flashing and darting. Chuck stabs

What is Wilson?

A volleyball with a bloody handprint on it.

knees in the shallows. Suddenly a whole school of fish swims by him, moving in unison, like one creature, splitting around Chuck like mercury. He grabs at them desperately. Nothing. On some rocks he sees clusters of limpets. He takes a rock and tries to dislodge one, but it smashes into a soggy mess. Idly, Chuck takes out his wallet. The money is soaked. He lays it out to dry. He finds a PHOTOGRAPH OF KELLY, soaked and mushy. He tries to smooth it out. For a moment he is overcome. His face tightens, his eyes get moist. He stares out to sea. He picks up his wallet again and takes out a credit card. With his finger, he prods around in the mucous-like meat, then tilts up the shell and we see the gooey gray stuff slide off the shell into his mouth. He starts to spit it out. Tries to make himself like it. And he swallow it. But what's the point? Everything that was so valuable before is useless now. Covered in sweat, desperate and exhausted, he throws down his wooden spade. He lies on his back, breathing hard. Pulls his hat over his eyes. He grabs his sharpened stone, begins to attack the clay. For a moment, he feels the weight of his isolation. Then he allows himself a deep breath. There is order now, after all. Time is under control. He freezes, holding his spear motionless. Then he jabs at the crab -- misses! The crab scurries away toward the rocks. Chuck splashes after it, stabbing as he goes, falling, getting up, stabbing again. Suddenly one stab feels different. Chuck carefully lifts up the spear. On the chime of obsidian flakes sways gently. The watch hangs on a stick. The Angel Box has the place of honor on one side. On the other side the Wilson soccer ball rests on a throne of rocks. Seaweed has been placed on the ball as hair. Clam shells have been stuck on for eyes, other shells form a mouth. A tube shell and conch form a pipe. He ties some fiber to a stick, then braids it into string, using both hands and his mouth for the three strands. He ties the string tightly around the shaft. He does his work automatically. As Chuck watches the sunset unfold, watches the whales going by in the darkened water, he takes some roasted eel chips, dips them into the breadfruit paste, and offers one to Wilson. His voice is flat, monotonal. But Wilson declines. He takes a big crunchy bite. PULL BACK as the sun goes down and Chuck reaches into the bowl again and dips an eel skin chip in the dip. Suddenly his shoe breaks! It's sandal made of woven yucca leaves. He bends down and fixes it, then heads on down the ledge. His hands are cut and bruised. He tries to get up, can't. Chuck sits back and examines his foot. His fingers come back covered with blood. He reaches out to steady himself, and leaves a HANDPRINT OF BLOOD on the rock. Chuck sticks the scalpel onto some coals to sterilize it. He holds it over his foot, takes a breath, then jabs in into the wound. The pain is intense. Chuck passes out. He collapses again. He runs into the water and starts to swim. He is so weak, however, he can catches, slowing the raft so that it rides the wave down. The waves come at him high as houses. The raft rides up one side, then plunges down the next. All Chuck can do is hold on. We hear the chirping and squeaking of dolphins. They come close to the raft. Chuck watches them play. Then realizes they are chasing his fish. They drive them along, into the path of another dolphin, who darts in and rips into the dorado, turning the water around the raft into churning, bloody foam. He takes his oar and begins beating the water. The killing continues. Suddenly the water is still. One dolphin sticks its head out of the water and stares at Chuck, squeaking. Another dolphin lifts its head up, then another. They squeak to each other, clearly communicating and talking about Chuck. He splashes the water with his oar. They dive, then jump into the air, squeaking as they go. They're gone. He begins to laugh. He rolls over onto his stomach and tries to do a pushup. He can't. Collapses onto the raft. Tries to do another pushup. Can't. He rolls over. He looks at the ocean. They're in a line of garbage, a thick slick of debris dumped off of ships. He closes his eyes. After a minute they come open. They slowly close again. His eyes come open again. He hums Beethoven's fifth. BA BA BA BUM. He hums to himself, begins to sing, Beatles. He pulls in the loose sea anchor rope, which is covered with barnacles. He scrapes the barnacle off the rope into the water jug, then sips it. The sun is setting, huge rays shoot out across the sky. Out of moving. No matter how hard he swims, the raft seems to recede from him. Finally he reaches it, hangs on the side, breathing hard, choking, crying. He struggles to pull himself on board. But he is weak, so weak. He can't do it. Summoning some primitive reserve of strength, he tries again. This time he slides on. He lies on the raft, panting. Then with all his strength he pulls himself to his feet, holds on to the mast, scans the ocean for Wilson. Nothing but waves. This is too much. Chuck starts to cry. The sun breaks through the clouds. With what strength he has left, Chuck raises the canopy, fastens it. He sits in the meager shade, his head between his knees. Closes his eyes. Just for a minute. There, riding right beside his raft, is a ship, a huge rusty tanker. Someone shouts down in a language we don't understand. Chuck sits up, can't believe it. Struggles to cover himself. The crew gathers around. None of them speak English, but there is a spontaneous outburst of human connection. One man brings some water. Another a blanket. Another some warm tea. Chuck sits there, shivering now. Deliriously happy. Delirious. Except for one. And on that bed we see Chuck, in a blue hospital gown. An IV drips into his arm. He plays idly with the remote control of the bed. He raises the head, then the foot. He pushes another button and the knee rest bends the bed again. A DOCTOR enters, carrying a thick chart. Chuck gives him a big manic grin. Malcolm MacDowell in "A Clockwork Orange." He checks his blood work records. Chuck has been trying not to laugh. he is chewing, he cuts the meat into strips. When he is done, he takes the backbone, breaks it, and sucks on it. Fish scales shine in his hair, blood covers his chest. He reaches out to touch the fish strips. His hand is glowing too. Suddenly he sees other lights. A ship. A ship is out there. And he hears it, a humming in deep register. He waves his hands. He yells. His voice cracks, we can barely hear it over the ocean. The lights move on. His raft is rocked by the wake, rocked hard. Chuck is thrown into the water! He comes to the surface, sputtering. Where is the raft? He looks one way, then another. Darkness. This is the worst. He turns again in the water. There, dimly, he can see the glow from the fish he killed. The glow saves his life. He swims toward it. He pulls himself back on the raft. He lies there exhausted, the glow from the phosphorescence casting a greenish light on his face. Little bits of electricity jump off the mast. Saint Elmos fire jumps around Chuck's hand. Fascinated, he holds out his hand. The fire jumps from his hand to the mast. Suddenly lightning shoots from the sky and strikes the ocean! A huge spout of water explodes like a depth charge. The CRACK is intense, then rolls away. Chuck stares, then realizes the danger and throws himself down on the raft. Suddenly a wall of rain sweeps over him and the ocean begins to roll. The thunder is deafening. Lightning flashes bursts through the rain. Frantic, Chuck lets out the sea anchor as the raft scuds down a huge wave. The anchor

What does he find out after getting rescued and returning home?

Everyone thinks he was dead.

chime of obsidian flakes sways gently. The watch hangs on a stick. The Angel Box has the place of honor on one side. On the other side the Wilson soccer ball rests on a throne of rocks. Seaweed has been placed on the ball as hair. Clam shells have been stuck on for eyes, other shells form a mouth. A tube shell and conch form a pipe. He ties some fiber to a stick, then braids it into string, using both hands and his mouth for the three strands. He ties the string tightly around the shaft. He does his work automatically. As Chuck watches the sunset unfold, watches the whales going by in the darkened water, he takes some roasted eel chips, dips them into the breadfruit paste, and offers one to Wilson. His voice is flat, monotonal. But Wilson declines. He takes a big crunchy bite. PULL BACK as the sun goes down and Chuck reaches into the bowl again and dips an eel skin chip in the dip. Suddenly his shoe breaks! It's sandal made of woven yucca leaves. He bends down and fixes it, then heads on down the ledge. His hands are cut and bruised. He tries to get up, can't. Chuck sits back and examines his foot. His fingers come back covered with blood. He reaches out to steady himself, and leaves a HANDPRINT OF BLOOD on the rock. Chuck sticks the scalpel onto some coals to sterilize it. He holds it over his foot, takes a breath, then jabs in into the wound. The pain is intense. Chuck passes out. He collapses again. He runs into the water and starts to swim. He is so weak, however, he can nods, but there's something he wants to say. That's not all Stan wants to say. But Chuck is limping out the door. Slowly and painfully Chuck enters. He's quite a sight. She stands up. There's a long moment where they look at each other. Then she comes into his arms. Holds him tight. She's part laughing, part crying. Chuck is happy, he's still riding the high. Well, maybe a little, but who cares? He hasn't been hugged or barely touched in so long. She disengages, looks at him with that old smile. He meets her gaze, looks her over with a smile. He notices the ring on her hand. His responses come so quick. Chuck seems blissfully sure of himself. Kelly fishes for a photo, shows it to Chuck. It's a little girl with a dog. Chuck laughs. It is funny, sort of. Stan appears, takes in the scene. The few patients waiting are edged into the corners, trying to look occupied with something else. Stan examines the ropes around the logs. Kelly points at something on the raft. He's not feeling sorry for himself. It's just a fact. They look at the tiny raft. It speaks for itself. Kelly notices the sail, sees the writing on it. Kelly reads it to herself. Her eyes are moist. And he seems really to believe it. And he leaves. This interests Chuck to no end. He tries to put it into words, isn't quite sure how. Kelly looks down at the raft. It's so small. He has something more to say. She waits. And that's the point, isn't it? We are social animals. No man is an island. And the laughter comes again. an Australian correspondent standing on Chuck's beach. Chuck is staring at the screen, seeing his cave, seeing all those years. On the screen we see a photograph of Chuck. The waitress looks over at Chuck. The other clients look at him too. The waitress comes over. Chuck looks down at his doodling. Hesitates. Then signs his name. Chuck's Mom, dressed in white with a hairnet, enters a windowed office in the b.g. Through the window we see her hug Chuck. Chuck gestures, no, I'm full. She puts down the spoon. He looks around the house, everything in its place. His mother has been here for forty years. There's a big crack running down from the ceiling. She studies him for a moment. He does, but that's not it entirely. She looks at him. She knows her boy. She looks at him, thinks about this. A WOMAN, BETTINA, answers the door -- THE woman from the beginning. She wears cut-off jeans and a blue work shirt covered with paint. There's a tattoo on her ankle. The woman stares in disbelief at the package she hasn't seen in years and never expected to see again. Chuck displays a FedEx badge. Bettina notices Chuck's bicycle. Bettina stares at the package, her own memories coming back. She holds the box and studies him for a long moment. Something -- the look on his face, the extraordinary reappearance of this long-lost package -- makes her curious. She lets Chuck in the door. They smile awkwardly at each other. She starts to open it. She's opened the package. She pulls out the bottles of salsa and the letter. There is a moment where neither knows what to say. Her eyes start to register recognition. only make a few strokes. He tries to yell as he swims... Choking and weak, he turns back and drags himself up on the beach. In the b.g., the sail dwindles into the distance. Furious, he kicks his signal fire, scattering the burnt-out coals. He slowly extends his hand and covers it, then pulls it away. Traces it with his fingers. Chuck covers his hand with paint and makes a handprint on the wall of the cave. He stands back and looks at it. Chuck picks up Wilson, thinks. He takes some charcoal out of his fire and draws eyebrows on the ball. Then, he mashes some berries, dips his fingers in the juice, and makes lips. He sticks shells on with clay for eyes. Then he looks at the face. He sits back and regards his companion. He gestures around the cave at the new paintings. But Wilson doesn't have an opinion. Idly Chuck takes down the Angel Box. For a long time he studies the wings on it. With a stick, he tries to draw a similar wing on the dusty floor of the cave. Dissatisfied, he wipes it away. He looks at the Angel Box. Casually he reaches over and cuts it open with a stone knife. Inside he finds two bottles of green salsa. And a letter. He reads over it. Visibly moved, Chuck puts down the letter. Chuck dips his finger into one of the bowls of colors and streaks it slowly across his face. To exorcise his loneliness, he will paint on the most expressive canvas there is: his own body. Chuck takes white paint and covers his hand. Then he presses it into his chest and makes a handprint. He draws a yellow spiral on his leg, then takes red and makes jagged lightning bolts on his chest on either side of the hand. Then his inner struggle ends. Then comes the FedEx box with the angel wings. Then Wilson. And he gently leads the raft into the lagoon. He jumps onto the raft, begins to paddle out toward where the surf crashes onto the reef. Chuck watches, times the waves, paddles like mad. He's committed. SCRAPE goes the first barrel, then the second, riding the receding wave. He's out! But the next wave is already surging forward. It smashes the raft against the reef! Coconuts and foodstuffs hurtle off the raft! The barrels cushion the impact. The raft tilts, spins, but stays outside the reef! The ropes holding the jugs of water break! The water sweeps overboard! The wave recedes again. Chuck recovers, paddles with all his strength, and then he's clear of the breakers! For a long moment he floats on the rollers, getting his breath. The water jugs float away, carried by the waves back into the lagoon. Chuck could go back and get them. If he were being prudent, he definitely would. But he's out. He might never get back out again. He stares at the lagoon and the receding water jugs. Then he stares at the island. Goodbye to all that. He turns and begins raising the sail. And we pull back until the ocean swallows the tiny raft and then we TILT DOWN AND... Chuck is gaunt, his clothes rotted. He lies looking over the side of the raft, spear in one hand, staring intently at the water. Dorados swim like specters, flashing and darting. Chuck stabs

Who does Chuch return the angel wing package to?

Bettina Peterson

knees in the shallows. Suddenly a whole school of fish swims by him, moving in unison, like one creature, splitting around Chuck like mercury. He grabs at them desperately. Nothing. On some rocks he sees clusters of limpets. He takes a rock and tries to dislodge one, but it smashes into a soggy mess. Idly, Chuck takes out his wallet. The money is soaked. He lays it out to dry. He finds a PHOTOGRAPH OF KELLY, soaked and mushy. He tries to smooth it out. For a moment he is overcome. His face tightens, his eyes get moist. He stares out to sea. He picks up his wallet again and takes out a credit card. With his finger, he prods around in the mucous-like meat, then tilts up the shell and we see the gooey gray stuff slide off the shell into his mouth. He starts to spit it out. Tries to make himself like it. And he swallow it. But what's the point? Everything that was so valuable before is useless now. Covered in sweat, desperate and exhausted, he throws down his wooden spade. He lies on his back, breathing hard. Pulls his hat over his eyes. He grabs his sharpened stone, begins to attack the clay. For a moment, he feels the weight of his isolation. Then he allows himself a deep breath. There is order now, after all. Time is under control. He freezes, holding his spear motionless. Then he jabs at the crab -- misses! The crab scurries away toward the rocks. Chuck splashes after it, stabbing as he goes, falling, getting up, stabbing again. Suddenly one stab feels different. Chuck carefully lifts up the spear. On the the empty ocean the Dorados suddenly appear, leaping flashes of silver right by the raft. One Dorado swims right by the raft, broadside. Chuck looks at it, uncomprehending. Then slowly reaches for his spear. Carefully he comes to his feet, then shoots the spear into the fish. Flapping and struggling, it lands on the deck. Chuck pounces on it. The banging continues. He concentrates on his work, then sits back on his heels in amazement. There's another fish inside. He holds that fish up, stares at it, then cuts it open. There's a smaller fish inside it. He pops out an eyeball, then another, and crunches them between his teeth. He takes the heart and liver, starts to eat, then stops. He struggles to remember. He eats them. Chuck picks up the smallest fish. It's half digested. He washes it in the ocean, trigger fish come up and nibble at his fingers. He cuts the small fish and hangs it on the stays. Suddenly something bumps the raft. Hard. Then again. Fins cut the water. SHARKS. A big hammerhead bumps the raft. BadChuck hums the theme from "Jaws." Chuck takes his spear stabs at the shark. Another one circles in, bumps the raft. The shark circles again, that big hammerhead like a nightmare. He stabs at it with his spear. He might as well have stabbed concrete. The shark circle, Chuck stabs again. But the shark is gone. Stabs again and again at the empty ocean. Chuck kneels, wavering, on the raft. The ocean is calm. Suddenly, BUMP. The raft tilts. Chuck hangs on. Then a shark appears, just out of spear range. Its lifeless black eyes seem to stare right through Chuck. chime of obsidian flakes sways gently. The watch hangs on a stick. The Angel Box has the place of honor on one side. On the other side the Wilson soccer ball rests on a throne of rocks. Seaweed has been placed on the ball as hair. Clam shells have been stuck on for eyes, other shells form a mouth. A tube shell and conch form a pipe. He ties some fiber to a stick, then braids it into string, using both hands and his mouth for the three strands. He ties the string tightly around the shaft. He does his work automatically. As Chuck watches the sunset unfold, watches the whales going by in the darkened water, he takes some roasted eel chips, dips them into the breadfruit paste, and offers one to Wilson. His voice is flat, monotonal. But Wilson declines. He takes a big crunchy bite. PULL BACK as the sun goes down and Chuck reaches into the bowl again and dips an eel skin chip in the dip. Suddenly his shoe breaks! It's sandal made of woven yucca leaves. He bends down and fixes it, then heads on down the ledge. His hands are cut and bruised. He tries to get up, can't. Chuck sits back and examines his foot. His fingers come back covered with blood. He reaches out to steady himself, and leaves a HANDPRINT OF BLOOD on the rock. Chuck sticks the scalpel onto some coals to sterilize it. He holds it over his foot, takes a breath, then jabs in into the wound. The pain is intense. Chuck passes out. He collapses again. He runs into the water and starts to swim. He is so weak, however, he can He draws a yellow spiral on his leg, then takes red and makes jagged lightning bolts on his chest on either side of the hand. Then his inner struggle ends. Then comes the FedEx box with the angel wings. Then Wilson. And he gently leads the raft into the lagoon. He jumps onto the raft, begins to paddle out toward where the surf crashes onto the reef. Chuck watches, times the waves, paddles like mad. He's committed. SCRAPE goes the first barrel, then the second, riding the receding wave. He's out! But the next wave is already surging forward. It smashes the raft against the reef! Coconuts and foodstuffs hurtle off the raft! The barrels cushion the impact. The raft tilts, spins, but stays outside the reef! The ropes holding the jugs of water break! The water sweeps overboard! The wave recedes again. Chuck recovers, paddles with all his strength, and then he's clear of the breakers! For a long moment he floats on the rollers, getting his breath. The water jugs float away, carried by the waves back into the lagoon. Chuck could go back and get them. If he were being prudent, he definitely would. But he's out. He might never get back out again. He stares at the lagoon and the receding water jugs. Then he stares at the island. Goodbye to all that. He turns and begins raising the sail. And we pull back until the ocean swallows the tiny raft and then we TILT DOWN AND... Chuck is gaunt, his clothes rotted. He lies looking over the side of the raft, spear in one hand, staring intently at the water. Dorados swim like specters, flashing and darting. Chuck stabs huge jaws open and close. Very slowly the whale moves ahead of the raft, its vast body passing Chuck. Chuck rips a fillet off the line and throws it in front of the whale, which ignores it. The whale slowly sinks, then suddenly arches its huge back and heads straight for the bottom. For a moment, all that remains are the flukes, black and vertical against the dark blue sky. With one swoop, those flukes could destroy Chuck and his raft. But they don't do anything except slowly sink. Then it is gone. We are on Chuck's face as he stares at where the whale had been, the surface marked only by a ring of concentric ripples that reach out and gently rock the raft. He dips his hand into the ocean, splashes some sea water on his face, splutters it out, then licks his lips. He is so thirsty. He looks at the water jug, full now with his own vomit, turns away, begins to work on the sea anchor again. But the work makes him even thirstier. He looks at the jug again. Picks it up. Takes a long drink. Chuck listens. Doesn't hear anything. Chuck picks up the spear, stabs it, misses. Suddenly he has a fish on the end of the spear. It struggles, he scoops it onto the raft, brutally pounds on its head, twists the stone knife into its spine. The struggling stops. Chuck looks at the dead fish and begins to sob. He cries uncontrollably. As he cries he cuts off the head, pulls out the eyeballs, and eats each one. Then he sucks the marrow out of the head. Then takes the heart and eats that. Then eats the liver. As

How does Chuck wound his hand?

He tries to make fire.

knees in the shallows. Suddenly a whole school of fish swims by him, moving in unison, like one creature, splitting around Chuck like mercury. He grabs at them desperately. Nothing. On some rocks he sees clusters of limpets. He takes a rock and tries to dislodge one, but it smashes into a soggy mess. Idly, Chuck takes out his wallet. The money is soaked. He lays it out to dry. He finds a PHOTOGRAPH OF KELLY, soaked and mushy. He tries to smooth it out. For a moment he is overcome. His face tightens, his eyes get moist. He stares out to sea. He picks up his wallet again and takes out a credit card. With his finger, he prods around in the mucous-like meat, then tilts up the shell and we see the gooey gray stuff slide off the shell into his mouth. He starts to spit it out. Tries to make himself like it. And he swallow it. But what's the point? Everything that was so valuable before is useless now. Covered in sweat, desperate and exhausted, he throws down his wooden spade. He lies on his back, breathing hard. Pulls his hat over his eyes. He grabs his sharpened stone, begins to attack the clay. For a moment, he feels the weight of his isolation. Then he allows himself a deep breath. There is order now, after all. Time is under control. He freezes, holding his spear motionless. Then he jabs at the crab -- misses! The crab scurries away toward the rocks. Chuck splashes after it, stabbing as he goes, falling, getting up, stabbing again. Suddenly one stab feels different. Chuck carefully lifts up the spear. On the chime of obsidian flakes sways gently. The watch hangs on a stick. The Angel Box has the place of honor on one side. On the other side the Wilson soccer ball rests on a throne of rocks. Seaweed has been placed on the ball as hair. Clam shells have been stuck on for eyes, other shells form a mouth. A tube shell and conch form a pipe. He ties some fiber to a stick, then braids it into string, using both hands and his mouth for the three strands. He ties the string tightly around the shaft. He does his work automatically. As Chuck watches the sunset unfold, watches the whales going by in the darkened water, he takes some roasted eel chips, dips them into the breadfruit paste, and offers one to Wilson. His voice is flat, monotonal. But Wilson declines. He takes a big crunchy bite. PULL BACK as the sun goes down and Chuck reaches into the bowl again and dips an eel skin chip in the dip. Suddenly his shoe breaks! It's sandal made of woven yucca leaves. He bends down and fixes it, then heads on down the ledge. His hands are cut and bruised. He tries to get up, can't. Chuck sits back and examines his foot. His fingers come back covered with blood. He reaches out to steady himself, and leaves a HANDPRINT OF BLOOD on the rock. Chuck sticks the scalpel onto some coals to sterilize it. He holds it over his foot, takes a breath, then jabs in into the wound. The pain is intense. Chuck passes out. He collapses again. He runs into the water and starts to swim. He is so weak, however, he can end is a squirming crab. He walks carefully with it to the beach. Lowering the spear, he lets the crab slip off. It darts toward the water. Chuck heads it off, trying to avoid the snapping claws. He kicks it back toward the beach, then slams a rock down on it. He twists off a crab claw, expecting to see flaky white meat. But a crab has an exoskeleton. The flesh simply pours out, like mucous. This is too much. He needs the next step, from the raw to the cooked. The crucial next step from primitive man to the beginnings of civilization. Chuck positions a makeshift drill in a hole he has scooped out in a piece of driftwood. He spins the drill with great effort. Nothing. He quits, exhausted. He looks at his hands. They are raw and blistered. He feels like Job. He walks over and picks a few boxes up from the P. Chuck tears another box open. Out slide some legal papers covered with Post-its. In quick cuts, we see him dump out computer memory boards, some designer dresses, flowers, a pair of roller blades, a script with a red cover -- which he never reads. He takes a long drink from his canteen, and flinches. His tooth is starting to hurt. He fishes some Tylenol out of the surgeon's bag and takes two. Very carefully Chuck shaves with the surgeon's scalpel. Chuck checks out his new appearance in the water. Much better. A clean start now. He starts to rub again. He breathes hard, sweat pours off his face. He is really going for it, what the hell! A tiny wisp of smoke only make a few strokes. He tries to yell as he swims... Choking and weak, he turns back and drags himself up on the beach. In the b.g., the sail dwindles into the distance. Furious, he kicks his signal fire, scattering the burnt-out coals. He slowly extends his hand and covers it, then pulls it away. Traces it with his fingers. Chuck covers his hand with paint and makes a handprint on the wall of the cave. He stands back and looks at it. Chuck picks up Wilson, thinks. He takes some charcoal out of his fire and draws eyebrows on the ball. Then, he mashes some berries, dips his fingers in the juice, and makes lips. He sticks shells on with clay for eyes. Then he looks at the face. He sits back and regards his companion. He gestures around the cave at the new paintings. But Wilson doesn't have an opinion. Idly Chuck takes down the Angel Box. For a long time he studies the wings on it. With a stick, he tries to draw a similar wing on the dusty floor of the cave. Dissatisfied, he wipes it away. He looks at the Angel Box. Casually he reaches over and cuts it open with a stone knife. Inside he finds two bottles of green salsa. And a letter. He reads over it. Visibly moved, Chuck puts down the letter. Chuck dips his finger into one of the bowls of colors and streaks it slowly across his face. To exorcise his loneliness, he will paint on the most expressive canvas there is: his own body. Chuck takes white paint and covers his hand. Then he presses it into his chest and makes a handprint. He draws a yellow spiral on his leg, then takes red and makes jagged lightning bolts on his chest on either side of the hand. Then his inner struggle ends. Then comes the FedEx box with the angel wings. Then Wilson. And he gently leads the raft into the lagoon. He jumps onto the raft, begins to paddle out toward where the surf crashes onto the reef. Chuck watches, times the waves, paddles like mad. He's committed. SCRAPE goes the first barrel, then the second, riding the receding wave. He's out! But the next wave is already surging forward. It smashes the raft against the reef! Coconuts and foodstuffs hurtle off the raft! The barrels cushion the impact. The raft tilts, spins, but stays outside the reef! The ropes holding the jugs of water break! The water sweeps overboard! The wave recedes again. Chuck recovers, paddles with all his strength, and then he's clear of the breakers! For a long moment he floats on the rollers, getting his breath. The water jugs float away, carried by the waves back into the lagoon. Chuck could go back and get them. If he were being prudent, he definitely would. But he's out. He might never get back out again. He stares at the lagoon and the receding water jugs. Then he stares at the island. Goodbye to all that. He turns and begins raising the sail. And we pull back until the ocean swallows the tiny raft and then we TILT DOWN AND... Chuck is gaunt, his clothes rotted. He lies looking over the side of the raft, spear in one hand, staring intently at the water. Dorados swim like specters, flashing and darting. Chuck stabs

What does Kelly give Chuck when he returns to civilization?

Keys.

the empty ocean the Dorados suddenly appear, leaping flashes of silver right by the raft. One Dorado swims right by the raft, broadside. Chuck looks at it, uncomprehending. Then slowly reaches for his spear. Carefully he comes to his feet, then shoots the spear into the fish. Flapping and struggling, it lands on the deck. Chuck pounces on it. The banging continues. He concentrates on his work, then sits back on his heels in amazement. There's another fish inside. He holds that fish up, stares at it, then cuts it open. There's a smaller fish inside it. He pops out an eyeball, then another, and crunches them between his teeth. He takes the heart and liver, starts to eat, then stops. He struggles to remember. He eats them. Chuck picks up the smallest fish. It's half digested. He washes it in the ocean, trigger fish come up and nibble at his fingers. He cuts the small fish and hangs it on the stays. Suddenly something bumps the raft. Hard. Then again. Fins cut the water. SHARKS. A big hammerhead bumps the raft. BadChuck hums the theme from "Jaws." Chuck takes his spear stabs at the shark. Another one circles in, bumps the raft. The shark circles again, that big hammerhead like a nightmare. He stabs at it with his spear. He might as well have stabbed concrete. The shark circle, Chuck stabs again. But the shark is gone. Stabs again and again at the empty ocean. Chuck kneels, wavering, on the raft. The ocean is calm. Suddenly, BUMP. The raft tilts. Chuck hangs on. Then a shark appears, just out of spear range. Its lifeless black eyes seem to stare right through Chuck. knees in the shallows. Suddenly a whole school of fish swims by him, moving in unison, like one creature, splitting around Chuck like mercury. He grabs at them desperately. Nothing. On some rocks he sees clusters of limpets. He takes a rock and tries to dislodge one, but it smashes into a soggy mess. Idly, Chuck takes out his wallet. The money is soaked. He lays it out to dry. He finds a PHOTOGRAPH OF KELLY, soaked and mushy. He tries to smooth it out. For a moment he is overcome. His face tightens, his eyes get moist. He stares out to sea. He picks up his wallet again and takes out a credit card. With his finger, he prods around in the mucous-like meat, then tilts up the shell and we see the gooey gray stuff slide off the shell into his mouth. He starts to spit it out. Tries to make himself like it. And he swallow it. But what's the point? Everything that was so valuable before is useless now. Covered in sweat, desperate and exhausted, he throws down his wooden spade. He lies on his back, breathing hard. Pulls his hat over his eyes. He grabs his sharpened stone, begins to attack the clay. For a moment, he feels the weight of his isolation. Then he allows himself a deep breath. There is order now, after all. Time is under control. He freezes, holding his spear motionless. Then he jabs at the crab -- misses! The crab scurries away toward the rocks. Chuck splashes after it, stabbing as he goes, falling, getting up, stabbing again. Suddenly one stab feels different. Chuck carefully lifts up the spear. On the The shell breaks to smithereens. Coconut milk splashes everywhere. Rotating a nut along its axis and carefully moving his fingers out of the way, he SMASHES the nut again. The shell splits! The precious liquid splashes out. Left inside is a swallow or two, which Chuck laps up eagerly. The milky white liquid dribbles down his face. Clouds scud in front of the sun. Beyond the reef the waves are high and churning. Chuck can see them pound onto the reef. This sinks in. Then Chuck gets an idea. But even that doesn't give him much hope. That sinks in. He stares idly out at the moonlight on the waves. Then not so idly. Something's out there, something floating on the tide. It's a body. Chuck turns it over. It's Al, one of the pilots, his face gray and waterlogged and very dead. He drags the body into the pit. Stares down at it. That could be me. He wants to say more, can't. He scoops some sand over the body. He scoops in some more sand. It's eerily like burying the tropical fish in his back yard. He looks over at the deep woods and down to the rocky point. Comes to a decision. He takes a drink of coconut, picks up his club and a coconut, sticks the stone knife in his pants. He's ready to go. He throws away the husk. He looks up, but the only sunlight reaching him is dappled from the canopy above him. The lava field narrows, forcing Chuck closer to the sea. He passes a series of CAVES, their mouths dark and mysterious and scary. He gives them a wide berth. Chuck chime of obsidian flakes sways gently. The watch hangs on a stick. The Angel Box has the place of honor on one side. On the other side the Wilson soccer ball rests on a throne of rocks. Seaweed has been placed on the ball as hair. Clam shells have been stuck on for eyes, other shells form a mouth. A tube shell and conch form a pipe. He ties some fiber to a stick, then braids it into string, using both hands and his mouth for the three strands. He ties the string tightly around the shaft. He does his work automatically. As Chuck watches the sunset unfold, watches the whales going by in the darkened water, he takes some roasted eel chips, dips them into the breadfruit paste, and offers one to Wilson. His voice is flat, monotonal. But Wilson declines. He takes a big crunchy bite. PULL BACK as the sun goes down and Chuck reaches into the bowl again and dips an eel skin chip in the dip. Suddenly his shoe breaks! It's sandal made of woven yucca leaves. He bends down and fixes it, then heads on down the ledge. His hands are cut and bruised. He tries to get up, can't. Chuck sits back and examines his foot. His fingers come back covered with blood. He reaches out to steady himself, and leaves a HANDPRINT OF BLOOD on the rock. Chuck sticks the scalpel onto some coals to sterilize it. He holds it over his foot, takes a breath, then jabs in into the wound. The pain is intense. Chuck passes out. He collapses again. He runs into the water and starts to swim. He is so weak, however, he can tries to blow on the mouth tubes for his life jacket. Can't do it! Puff. Puff. Shit! John motions frantically for Chuck to pull on the automatic inflators on his jacket. Chuck fumbles for them. Huge palettes shift and groan, one BREAKS FREE, banging violently against the side of the plane, spilling out its boxes. Then it swings and KNOCKS Chuck on the head! He goes down! Another CONTROLLER tracks a giant computer screen. The signal flashes, but is strangely still compared to the others, which are moving. The tide gently rocks him, laps at his face. He chokes. Slowly he gets to his knees. Vomits seawater, big heaves. He rolls over, sits down. Dazed. Still confused. Where am I? What happened? Chuck's first instinct is to check the time. He looks at his watch, taps it in frustration. Then he looks around, and we look with him. Chuck takes off his life jacket, sits down in the shade, makes himself comfortable, and waits. We HEAR from the dark thickets a STRANGE NOISE. Rustling in the leaves. Something crashing in the trees, or is it a wave? A jolt of adrenaline courses through Chuck's body. He lurches to his feet. We HEAR the noises again. Chuck edges toward the rocks at the barb of the hook. Keeping his eye on the thicket, he bends down and picks up a stone. His first weapon. In the rocks he finds a piece of driftwood. He picks it up in his other hand. He backs between two rocks and stands facing the thicket, every sense alert. A cloud passes over the moon. The shadow streaks across Chuck's anxious face.

What washes up on the island that helps Chuck complete the construction of his raft?

A section of a portable toilet seat.

knees in the shallows. Suddenly a whole school of fish swims by him, moving in unison, like one creature, splitting around Chuck like mercury. He grabs at them desperately. Nothing. On some rocks he sees clusters of limpets. He takes a rock and tries to dislodge one, but it smashes into a soggy mess. Idly, Chuck takes out his wallet. The money is soaked. He lays it out to dry. He finds a PHOTOGRAPH OF KELLY, soaked and mushy. He tries to smooth it out. For a moment he is overcome. His face tightens, his eyes get moist. He stares out to sea. He picks up his wallet again and takes out a credit card. With his finger, he prods around in the mucous-like meat, then tilts up the shell and we see the gooey gray stuff slide off the shell into his mouth. He starts to spit it out. Tries to make himself like it. And he swallow it. But what's the point? Everything that was so valuable before is useless now. Covered in sweat, desperate and exhausted, he throws down his wooden spade. He lies on his back, breathing hard. Pulls his hat over his eyes. He grabs his sharpened stone, begins to attack the clay. For a moment, he feels the weight of his isolation. Then he allows himself a deep breath. There is order now, after all. Time is under control. He freezes, holding his spear motionless. Then he jabs at the crab -- misses! The crab scurries away toward the rocks. Chuck splashes after it, stabbing as he goes, falling, getting up, stabbing again. Suddenly one stab feels different. Chuck carefully lifts up the spear. On the He draws a yellow spiral on his leg, then takes red and makes jagged lightning bolts on his chest on either side of the hand. Then his inner struggle ends. Then comes the FedEx box with the angel wings. Then Wilson. And he gently leads the raft into the lagoon. He jumps onto the raft, begins to paddle out toward where the surf crashes onto the reef. Chuck watches, times the waves, paddles like mad. He's committed. SCRAPE goes the first barrel, then the second, riding the receding wave. He's out! But the next wave is already surging forward. It smashes the raft against the reef! Coconuts and foodstuffs hurtle off the raft! The barrels cushion the impact. The raft tilts, spins, but stays outside the reef! The ropes holding the jugs of water break! The water sweeps overboard! The wave recedes again. Chuck recovers, paddles with all his strength, and then he's clear of the breakers! For a long moment he floats on the rollers, getting his breath. The water jugs float away, carried by the waves back into the lagoon. Chuck could go back and get them. If he were being prudent, he definitely would. But he's out. He might never get back out again. He stares at the lagoon and the receding water jugs. Then he stares at the island. Goodbye to all that. He turns and begins raising the sail. And we pull back until the ocean swallows the tiny raft and then we TILT DOWN AND... Chuck is gaunt, his clothes rotted. He lies looking over the side of the raft, spear in one hand, staring intently at the water. Dorados swim like specters, flashing and darting. Chuck stabs catches, slowing the raft so that it rides the wave down. The waves come at him high as houses. The raft rides up one side, then plunges down the next. All Chuck can do is hold on. We hear the chirping and squeaking of dolphins. They come close to the raft. Chuck watches them play. Then realizes they are chasing his fish. They drive them along, into the path of another dolphin, who darts in and rips into the dorado, turning the water around the raft into churning, bloody foam. He takes his oar and begins beating the water. The killing continues. Suddenly the water is still. One dolphin sticks its head out of the water and stares at Chuck, squeaking. Another dolphin lifts its head up, then another. They squeak to each other, clearly communicating and talking about Chuck. He splashes the water with his oar. They dive, then jump into the air, squeaking as they go. They're gone. He begins to laugh. He rolls over onto his stomach and tries to do a pushup. He can't. Collapses onto the raft. Tries to do another pushup. Can't. He rolls over. He looks at the ocean. They're in a line of garbage, a thick slick of debris dumped off of ships. He closes his eyes. After a minute they come open. They slowly close again. His eyes come open again. He hums Beethoven's fifth. BA BA BA BUM. He hums to himself, begins to sing, Beatles. He pulls in the loose sea anchor rope, which is covered with barnacles. He scrapes the barnacle off the rope into the water jug, then sips it. The sun is setting, huge rays shoot out across the sky. Out of the input. Stan steers Chuck down the steps as the cheers continue. At the bottom of the steps Roger steps forward. The two brothers embrace each other. After a moment Roger disengages. Mary gives Chuck a hug. He looks around at the crowds. Stan nudges Chuck. Time to go to the podium. Stan and Chuck head for the podium. All the loaders and operators and package scanners begin to applaud. Chuck smiles, then laughs, getting into the emotion. He keeps up an almost indecipherable babble underneath the cheering. Occasionally he sees someone he knows. He steps to the microphone and addresses the SuperHub. As he talks, we stay on Chuck, who is taking in this amazing scene, not really listening. He hands the plaque to Chuck. Chuck acknowledges the cheers of the crowd. He laughs, a short brittle laugh, composes himself. He looks over at the hub. He points at some high tech equipment on the edge of the shed. He looks around at everyone, doesn't know what else to say. The tension is broken. Everyone laughs. Phil Steele motions with his hand. Let it be done. As he heads for the car, REPORTERS shout questions. Stan drives with a certain aggressiveness. Chuck looks out at the traffic, at all the activity, at the vast intricate anthill of humanity going everywhere and nowhere. He swerves into another lane. He grins, cuts across to the exit. Chuck stares at him. Are you kidding? He works some keys, waits. He holds out a badge. He starts to pull up the data. He gets back on his bicycle and rides away. The waitress sets a plate down in front of Chuck, turns to watch. On the TV we see only make a few strokes. He tries to yell as he swims... Choking and weak, he turns back and drags himself up on the beach. In the b.g., the sail dwindles into the distance. Furious, he kicks his signal fire, scattering the burnt-out coals. He slowly extends his hand and covers it, then pulls it away. Traces it with his fingers. Chuck covers his hand with paint and makes a handprint on the wall of the cave. He stands back and looks at it. Chuck picks up Wilson, thinks. He takes some charcoal out of his fire and draws eyebrows on the ball. Then, he mashes some berries, dips his fingers in the juice, and makes lips. He sticks shells on with clay for eyes. Then he looks at the face. He sits back and regards his companion. He gestures around the cave at the new paintings. But Wilson doesn't have an opinion. Idly Chuck takes down the Angel Box. For a long time he studies the wings on it. With a stick, he tries to draw a similar wing on the dusty floor of the cave. Dissatisfied, he wipes it away. He looks at the Angel Box. Casually he reaches over and cuts it open with a stone knife. Inside he finds two bottles of green salsa. And a letter. He reads over it. Visibly moved, Chuck puts down the letter. Chuck dips his finger into one of the bowls of colors and streaks it slowly across his face. To exorcise his loneliness, he will paint on the most expressive canvas there is: his own body. Chuck takes white paint and covers his hand. Then he presses it into his chest and makes a handprint.

Where do Chuck and Kelly live?

Memphis

chime of obsidian flakes sways gently. The watch hangs on a stick. The Angel Box has the place of honor on one side. On the other side the Wilson soccer ball rests on a throne of rocks. Seaweed has been placed on the ball as hair. Clam shells have been stuck on for eyes, other shells form a mouth. A tube shell and conch form a pipe. He ties some fiber to a stick, then braids it into string, using both hands and his mouth for the three strands. He ties the string tightly around the shaft. He does his work automatically. As Chuck watches the sunset unfold, watches the whales going by in the darkened water, he takes some roasted eel chips, dips them into the breadfruit paste, and offers one to Wilson. His voice is flat, monotonal. But Wilson declines. He takes a big crunchy bite. PULL BACK as the sun goes down and Chuck reaches into the bowl again and dips an eel skin chip in the dip. Suddenly his shoe breaks! It's sandal made of woven yucca leaves. He bends down and fixes it, then heads on down the ledge. His hands are cut and bruised. He tries to get up, can't. Chuck sits back and examines his foot. His fingers come back covered with blood. He reaches out to steady himself, and leaves a HANDPRINT OF BLOOD on the rock. Chuck sticks the scalpel onto some coals to sterilize it. He holds it over his foot, takes a breath, then jabs in into the wound. The pain is intense. Chuck passes out. He collapses again. He runs into the water and starts to swim. He is so weak, however, he can He draws a yellow spiral on his leg, then takes red and makes jagged lightning bolts on his chest on either side of the hand. Then his inner struggle ends. Then comes the FedEx box with the angel wings. Then Wilson. And he gently leads the raft into the lagoon. He jumps onto the raft, begins to paddle out toward where the surf crashes onto the reef. Chuck watches, times the waves, paddles like mad. He's committed. SCRAPE goes the first barrel, then the second, riding the receding wave. He's out! But the next wave is already surging forward. It smashes the raft against the reef! Coconuts and foodstuffs hurtle off the raft! The barrels cushion the impact. The raft tilts, spins, but stays outside the reef! The ropes holding the jugs of water break! The water sweeps overboard! The wave recedes again. Chuck recovers, paddles with all his strength, and then he's clear of the breakers! For a long moment he floats on the rollers, getting his breath. The water jugs float away, carried by the waves back into the lagoon. Chuck could go back and get them. If he were being prudent, he definitely would. But he's out. He might never get back out again. He stares at the lagoon and the receding water jugs. Then he stares at the island. Goodbye to all that. He turns and begins raising the sail. And we pull back until the ocean swallows the tiny raft and then we TILT DOWN AND... Chuck is gaunt, his clothes rotted. He lies looking over the side of the raft, spear in one hand, staring intently at the water. Dorados swim like specters, flashing and darting. Chuck stabs blackened mess. Chuck stares at it. Chuck displays the puppy. Chuck hesitates just a moment. This is an old, sore subject. He drops the turkey giblets into the trash. Chuck can't believe this. Mom goes to the freezer and takes out some frozen strawberries. Mom mashes the block of frozen strawberries with a fork to separate the strawberries from the ice. Roger grins at him. This is just how they are. They all sit down. Mom brings the slushy frozen strawberries to the table, squirts on some Reddi-whip. Looks pointedly at Chuck. Not a timely topic with Chuck. Chuck takes a bite, winces a little as the cold strawberries hit his teeth. She looks pointedly at Chuck. Chuck finishes the drain pipe. Gives it a thunk with his finger. Chuck is beside it, slumped down on the desk. Asleep. She nods, used to this. The box squawks. The TV screen rolls an imperfect image. A Technician is fiddling with the TV set. The squawk box hums and crackles. Nothing. Chuck turns to the Technician. Chuck turns to Leslie. Chuck looks over at Stan. And Stan is impressed. Kelly can't stay mad. She's half-laughing, half-wanting-to-cry. And then it hits her. She stares at him for a long moment, then at the puppy. He hands her the dog. She kisses the puppy. Chuck settles into his seat. Al has an Australian accent. He puts in his ear plugs and takes out his Valium. He swallows one, then thinks, and swallows two more. Then he turns on his Walkman to the Rolling Stones, puts the mask over his eyes, and, as usual, goes to sleep. Chuck tries to steady himself against the wall. This is nightmarish. Is this really happening? Chuck only make a few strokes. He tries to yell as he swims... Choking and weak, he turns back and drags himself up on the beach. In the b.g., the sail dwindles into the distance. Furious, he kicks his signal fire, scattering the burnt-out coals. He slowly extends his hand and covers it, then pulls it away. Traces it with his fingers. Chuck covers his hand with paint and makes a handprint on the wall of the cave. He stands back and looks at it. Chuck picks up Wilson, thinks. He takes some charcoal out of his fire and draws eyebrows on the ball. Then, he mashes some berries, dips his fingers in the juice, and makes lips. He sticks shells on with clay for eyes. Then he looks at the face. He sits back and regards his companion. He gestures around the cave at the new paintings. But Wilson doesn't have an opinion. Idly Chuck takes down the Angel Box. For a long time he studies the wings on it. With a stick, he tries to draw a similar wing on the dusty floor of the cave. Dissatisfied, he wipes it away. He looks at the Angel Box. Casually he reaches over and cuts it open with a stone knife. Inside he finds two bottles of green salsa. And a letter. He reads over it. Visibly moved, Chuck puts down the letter. Chuck dips his finger into one of the bowls of colors and streaks it slowly across his face. To exorcise his loneliness, he will paint on the most expressive canvas there is: his own body. Chuck takes white paint and covers his hand. Then he presses it into his chest and makes a handprint. an Australian correspondent standing on Chuck's beach. Chuck is staring at the screen, seeing his cave, seeing all those years. On the screen we see a photograph of Chuck. The waitress looks over at Chuck. The other clients look at him too. The waitress comes over. Chuck looks down at his doodling. Hesitates. Then signs his name. Chuck's Mom, dressed in white with a hairnet, enters a windowed office in the b.g. Through the window we see her hug Chuck. Chuck gestures, no, I'm full. She puts down the spoon. He looks around the house, everything in its place. His mother has been here for forty years. There's a big crack running down from the ceiling. She studies him for a moment. He does, but that's not it entirely. She looks at him. She knows her boy. She looks at him, thinks about this. A WOMAN, BETTINA, answers the door -- THE woman from the beginning. She wears cut-off jeans and a blue work shirt covered with paint. There's a tattoo on her ankle. The woman stares in disbelief at the package she hasn't seen in years and never expected to see again. Chuck displays a FedEx badge. Bettina notices Chuck's bicycle. Bettina stares at the package, her own memories coming back. She holds the box and studies him for a long moment. Something -- the look on his face, the extraordinary reappearance of this long-lost package -- makes her curious. She lets Chuck in the door. They smile awkwardly at each other. She starts to open it. She's opened the package. She pulls out the bottles of salsa and the letter. There is a moment where neither knows what to say. Her eyes start to register recognition.

Where is Chuck called away to during Christmas?

Malaysia

chime of obsidian flakes sways gently. The watch hangs on a stick. The Angel Box has the place of honor on one side. On the other side the Wilson soccer ball rests on a throne of rocks. Seaweed has been placed on the ball as hair. Clam shells have been stuck on for eyes, other shells form a mouth. A tube shell and conch form a pipe. He ties some fiber to a stick, then braids it into string, using both hands and his mouth for the three strands. He ties the string tightly around the shaft. He does his work automatically. As Chuck watches the sunset unfold, watches the whales going by in the darkened water, he takes some roasted eel chips, dips them into the breadfruit paste, and offers one to Wilson. His voice is flat, monotonal. But Wilson declines. He takes a big crunchy bite. PULL BACK as the sun goes down and Chuck reaches into the bowl again and dips an eel skin chip in the dip. Suddenly his shoe breaks! It's sandal made of woven yucca leaves. He bends down and fixes it, then heads on down the ledge. His hands are cut and bruised. He tries to get up, can't. Chuck sits back and examines his foot. His fingers come back covered with blood. He reaches out to steady himself, and leaves a HANDPRINT OF BLOOD on the rock. Chuck sticks the scalpel onto some coals to sterilize it. He holds it over his foot, takes a breath, then jabs in into the wound. The pain is intense. Chuck passes out. He collapses again. He runs into the water and starts to swim. He is so weak, however, he can He draws a yellow spiral on his leg, then takes red and makes jagged lightning bolts on his chest on either side of the hand. Then his inner struggle ends. Then comes the FedEx box with the angel wings. Then Wilson. And he gently leads the raft into the lagoon. He jumps onto the raft, begins to paddle out toward where the surf crashes onto the reef. Chuck watches, times the waves, paddles like mad. He's committed. SCRAPE goes the first barrel, then the second, riding the receding wave. He's out! But the next wave is already surging forward. It smashes the raft against the reef! Coconuts and foodstuffs hurtle off the raft! The barrels cushion the impact. The raft tilts, spins, but stays outside the reef! The ropes holding the jugs of water break! The water sweeps overboard! The wave recedes again. Chuck recovers, paddles with all his strength, and then he's clear of the breakers! For a long moment he floats on the rollers, getting his breath. The water jugs float away, carried by the waves back into the lagoon. Chuck could go back and get them. If he were being prudent, he definitely would. But he's out. He might never get back out again. He stares at the lagoon and the receding water jugs. Then he stares at the island. Goodbye to all that. He turns and begins raising the sail. And we pull back until the ocean swallows the tiny raft and then we TILT DOWN AND... Chuck is gaunt, his clothes rotted. He lies looking over the side of the raft, spear in one hand, staring intently at the water. Dorados swim like specters, flashing and darting. Chuck stabs Chuck puts headphones from his Walkman over his ears, puts a mask over his eyes and leans his head back onto the headrest. We hear the Rolling Stones. Chuck pulls off the mask, takes out the earplugs. He manages a groggy grin. Chuck walks to the tank. He tightens a piece of tape that holds the power cord onto the filter, taps the filter with his finger, once, twice...the bubbles start again. But for a couple of fish floating on top of the tank it's too late. Chuck gets out his scoop and slowly skims them off. Drops the dead fish in. Fills the hole. One of them gestures toward a door. Ahead of him we see the flashing green light of a Xerox machine. Surprised, Kelly turns to greet Chuck. She leaps into his arms. Kelly looks over at the Xerox. He lifts up the cover. He pries up one feeder, then another. But Chuck doesn't want to talk. He's focused on the machine. She pulls him out of the machine. He has toner on his fingers. He suddenly looks really tired. He turns to the Xerox in frustration. She looks at him. She licks the last bit of toner off his fingers. She ignores that, stays with the fantasy. And she comes closer to him. She's really close now. They squiggle themselves onto the desk. And then the light goes out. The operations team of FedEx sits around a large table. Each has on a headset. BECCA TWIGG, the business-like senior vice president of Operations, addresses questions to a man -- COLIN PARKER-BOWLES, the European operations manager -- on a LARGE TV SCREEN in front of her. "London" is superimposed on the screen. Colin continues as Chuck, out of breath, blackened mess. Chuck stares at it. Chuck displays the puppy. Chuck hesitates just a moment. This is an old, sore subject. He drops the turkey giblets into the trash. Chuck can't believe this. Mom goes to the freezer and takes out some frozen strawberries. Mom mashes the block of frozen strawberries with a fork to separate the strawberries from the ice. Roger grins at him. This is just how they are. They all sit down. Mom brings the slushy frozen strawberries to the table, squirts on some Reddi-whip. Looks pointedly at Chuck. Not a timely topic with Chuck. Chuck takes a bite, winces a little as the cold strawberries hit his teeth. She looks pointedly at Chuck. Chuck finishes the drain pipe. Gives it a thunk with his finger. Chuck is beside it, slumped down on the desk. Asleep. She nods, used to this. The box squawks. The TV screen rolls an imperfect image. A Technician is fiddling with the TV set. The squawk box hums and crackles. Nothing. Chuck turns to the Technician. Chuck turns to Leslie. Chuck looks over at Stan. And Stan is impressed. Kelly can't stay mad. She's half-laughing, half-wanting-to-cry. And then it hits her. She stares at him for a long moment, then at the puppy. He hands her the dog. She kisses the puppy. Chuck settles into his seat. Al has an Australian accent. He puts in his ear plugs and takes out his Valium. He swallows one, then thinks, and swallows two more. Then he turns on his Walkman to the Rolling Stones, puts the mask over his eyes, and, as usual, goes to sleep. Chuck tries to steady himself against the wall. This is nightmarish. Is this really happening? Chuck If the Dorado was a gift from God, this is a message from Hell. Then the shark is gone. He smiles at the thought. Thinks about that, it spoils the picture. He closes his eyes. This is the greatest fantasy. Chuck thinks over the options, thinking of each one. He rolls over. There, square in his vision, is a ship, its form coming in and out of a low haze. Chuck jumps to his feet. Waves. Screams. The ship moves on. We can see the decks the rigging, the vastness of it. Chuck realizes he is naked. Struggles to pull on the remains of his pants finally holds them like a diaper with one hand as he continues to wave. On the ship no one is to be seen. It is a spooky sight. The big tanker moves on. We are on Chuck's face. Passed up again. Then he realizes what is about to happen. He throws out the sea anchor. He throws himself onto the raft and grips it as tight as he can, wiggles his feet into the ropes. Then comes the wake of the ship. It rocks the raft like a piece of flotsam. The raft rides high up on the wave, then shoots down it, but the sea anchor holds, and the raft slows and rides along with the wave. And then the sea is calm again. Slowly Chuck sinks to his knees. His hand lets loose his pants. He lies down on the raft and imagines the conversation with the ship's captain. The depression comes back again. Chuck picks up Wilson. He holds Wilson close to his chest. He lies on the raft and holds Wilson close. We move up until we see

What is the company that Chuck works for?

FedEx

knees in the shallows. Suddenly a whole school of fish swims by him, moving in unison, like one creature, splitting around Chuck like mercury. He grabs at them desperately. Nothing. On some rocks he sees clusters of limpets. He takes a rock and tries to dislodge one, but it smashes into a soggy mess. Idly, Chuck takes out his wallet. The money is soaked. He lays it out to dry. He finds a PHOTOGRAPH OF KELLY, soaked and mushy. He tries to smooth it out. For a moment he is overcome. His face tightens, his eyes get moist. He stares out to sea. He picks up his wallet again and takes out a credit card. With his finger, he prods around in the mucous-like meat, then tilts up the shell and we see the gooey gray stuff slide off the shell into his mouth. He starts to spit it out. Tries to make himself like it. And he swallow it. But what's the point? Everything that was so valuable before is useless now. Covered in sweat, desperate and exhausted, he throws down his wooden spade. He lies on his back, breathing hard. Pulls his hat over his eyes. He grabs his sharpened stone, begins to attack the clay. For a moment, he feels the weight of his isolation. Then he allows himself a deep breath. There is order now, after all. Time is under control. He freezes, holding his spear motionless. Then he jabs at the crab -- misses! The crab scurries away toward the rocks. Chuck splashes after it, stabbing as he goes, falling, getting up, stabbing again. Suddenly one stab feels different. Chuck carefully lifts up the spear. On the chime of obsidian flakes sways gently. The watch hangs on a stick. The Angel Box has the place of honor on one side. On the other side the Wilson soccer ball rests on a throne of rocks. Seaweed has been placed on the ball as hair. Clam shells have been stuck on for eyes, other shells form a mouth. A tube shell and conch form a pipe. He ties some fiber to a stick, then braids it into string, using both hands and his mouth for the three strands. He ties the string tightly around the shaft. He does his work automatically. As Chuck watches the sunset unfold, watches the whales going by in the darkened water, he takes some roasted eel chips, dips them into the breadfruit paste, and offers one to Wilson. His voice is flat, monotonal. But Wilson declines. He takes a big crunchy bite. PULL BACK as the sun goes down and Chuck reaches into the bowl again and dips an eel skin chip in the dip. Suddenly his shoe breaks! It's sandal made of woven yucca leaves. He bends down and fixes it, then heads on down the ledge. His hands are cut and bruised. He tries to get up, can't. Chuck sits back and examines his foot. His fingers come back covered with blood. He reaches out to steady himself, and leaves a HANDPRINT OF BLOOD on the rock. Chuck sticks the scalpel onto some coals to sterilize it. He holds it over his foot, takes a breath, then jabs in into the wound. The pain is intense. Chuck passes out. He collapses again. He runs into the water and starts to swim. He is so weak, however, he can He draws a yellow spiral on his leg, then takes red and makes jagged lightning bolts on his chest on either side of the hand. Then his inner struggle ends. Then comes the FedEx box with the angel wings. Then Wilson. And he gently leads the raft into the lagoon. He jumps onto the raft, begins to paddle out toward where the surf crashes onto the reef. Chuck watches, times the waves, paddles like mad. He's committed. SCRAPE goes the first barrel, then the second, riding the receding wave. He's out! But the next wave is already surging forward. It smashes the raft against the reef! Coconuts and foodstuffs hurtle off the raft! The barrels cushion the impact. The raft tilts, spins, but stays outside the reef! The ropes holding the jugs of water break! The water sweeps overboard! The wave recedes again. Chuck recovers, paddles with all his strength, and then he's clear of the breakers! For a long moment he floats on the rollers, getting his breath. The water jugs float away, carried by the waves back into the lagoon. Chuck could go back and get them. If he were being prudent, he definitely would. But he's out. He might never get back out again. He stares at the lagoon and the receding water jugs. Then he stares at the island. Goodbye to all that. He turns and begins raising the sail. And we pull back until the ocean swallows the tiny raft and then we TILT DOWN AND... Chuck is gaunt, his clothes rotted. He lies looking over the side of the raft, spear in one hand, staring intently at the water. Dorados swim like specters, flashing and darting. Chuck stabs The shell breaks to smithereens. Coconut milk splashes everywhere. Rotating a nut along its axis and carefully moving his fingers out of the way, he SMASHES the nut again. The shell splits! The precious liquid splashes out. Left inside is a swallow or two, which Chuck laps up eagerly. The milky white liquid dribbles down his face. Clouds scud in front of the sun. Beyond the reef the waves are high and churning. Chuck can see them pound onto the reef. This sinks in. Then Chuck gets an idea. But even that doesn't give him much hope. That sinks in. He stares idly out at the moonlight on the waves. Then not so idly. Something's out there, something floating on the tide. It's a body. Chuck turns it over. It's Al, one of the pilots, his face gray and waterlogged and very dead. He drags the body into the pit. Stares down at it. That could be me. He wants to say more, can't. He scoops some sand over the body. He scoops in some more sand. It's eerily like burying the tropical fish in his back yard. He looks over at the deep woods and down to the rocky point. Comes to a decision. He takes a drink of coconut, picks up his club and a coconut, sticks the stone knife in his pants. He's ready to go. He throws away the husk. He looks up, but the only sunlight reaching him is dappled from the canopy above him. The lava field narrows, forcing Chuck closer to the sea. He passes a series of CAVES, their mouths dark and mysterious and scary. He gives them a wide berth. Chuck -- And the other Chuck begins to laugh. The laughter goes on. He stands up and checks the horizon. Suddenly Chuck sees something on the horizon. A bank of clouds. A cone of -- land. He squints, stares again. The clouds part. It looks like -- his island. Chuck doesn't know whether to feel joy or despair. Chuck picks up the soccer ball, holds it up, and stares out at...ocean. He sits back, looks at the mock headstone. He goes on writing. The waves begin to grow, the ocean turns a slate gray. Far above him, great frigate birds circle. Suddenly one dives on a booby which has caught a fish. The great frigate bird swoops all around the booby until, panicked, it drops the fish, which plummets toward the sea. With a graceful dive, the huge bird grabs the fish and then soars up on a thermal, high into the sky. Lightning flashes back and forth across the horizon, which is turning black and dark. Thunder rolls. And then the sharks are gone. Chuck comes to his knees slowly, then a big wave hits. Wilson is swept into the ocean! For a moment Chuck is uncomprehending. He watches as Wilson slowly floats away. Then he dives in to the water! Swims frantically after Wilson. Wilson floats away from him. He swims, but he's so weak. Finally he gets to Wilson. He reaches out, but only pushes the ball farther away. It bobs on the waves. Chuck treads water, exhausted. Where is the raft? Then he turns back the other way. The raft has drifted by him. He can go after Wilson, or he can go after the raft. He swims toward the raft, barely

What does Chuck collect along the shore of the island he has landed on?

Packages

knees in the shallows. Suddenly a whole school of fish swims by him, moving in unison, like one creature, splitting around Chuck like mercury. He grabs at them desperately. Nothing. On some rocks he sees clusters of limpets. He takes a rock and tries to dislodge one, but it smashes into a soggy mess. Idly, Chuck takes out his wallet. The money is soaked. He lays it out to dry. He finds a PHOTOGRAPH OF KELLY, soaked and mushy. He tries to smooth it out. For a moment he is overcome. His face tightens, his eyes get moist. He stares out to sea. He picks up his wallet again and takes out a credit card. With his finger, he prods around in the mucous-like meat, then tilts up the shell and we see the gooey gray stuff slide off the shell into his mouth. He starts to spit it out. Tries to make himself like it. And he swallow it. But what's the point? Everything that was so valuable before is useless now. Covered in sweat, desperate and exhausted, he throws down his wooden spade. He lies on his back, breathing hard. Pulls his hat over his eyes. He grabs his sharpened stone, begins to attack the clay. For a moment, he feels the weight of his isolation. Then he allows himself a deep breath. There is order now, after all. Time is under control. He freezes, holding his spear motionless. Then he jabs at the crab -- misses! The crab scurries away toward the rocks. Chuck splashes after it, stabbing as he goes, falling, getting up, stabbing again. Suddenly one stab feels different. Chuck carefully lifts up the spear. On the the empty ocean the Dorados suddenly appear, leaping flashes of silver right by the raft. One Dorado swims right by the raft, broadside. Chuck looks at it, uncomprehending. Then slowly reaches for his spear. Carefully he comes to his feet, then shoots the spear into the fish. Flapping and struggling, it lands on the deck. Chuck pounces on it. The banging continues. He concentrates on his work, then sits back on his heels in amazement. There's another fish inside. He holds that fish up, stares at it, then cuts it open. There's a smaller fish inside it. He pops out an eyeball, then another, and crunches them between his teeth. He takes the heart and liver, starts to eat, then stops. He struggles to remember. He eats them. Chuck picks up the smallest fish. It's half digested. He washes it in the ocean, trigger fish come up and nibble at his fingers. He cuts the small fish and hangs it on the stays. Suddenly something bumps the raft. Hard. Then again. Fins cut the water. SHARKS. A big hammerhead bumps the raft. BadChuck hums the theme from "Jaws." Chuck takes his spear stabs at the shark. Another one circles in, bumps the raft. The shark circles again, that big hammerhead like a nightmare. He stabs at it with his spear. He might as well have stabbed concrete. The shark circle, Chuck stabs again. But the shark is gone. Stabs again and again at the empty ocean. Chuck kneels, wavering, on the raft. The ocean is calm. Suddenly, BUMP. The raft tilts. Chuck hangs on. Then a shark appears, just out of spear range. Its lifeless black eyes seem to stare right through Chuck. chime of obsidian flakes sways gently. The watch hangs on a stick. The Angel Box has the place of honor on one side. On the other side the Wilson soccer ball rests on a throne of rocks. Seaweed has been placed on the ball as hair. Clam shells have been stuck on for eyes, other shells form a mouth. A tube shell and conch form a pipe. He ties some fiber to a stick, then braids it into string, using both hands and his mouth for the three strands. He ties the string tightly around the shaft. He does his work automatically. As Chuck watches the sunset unfold, watches the whales going by in the darkened water, he takes some roasted eel chips, dips them into the breadfruit paste, and offers one to Wilson. His voice is flat, monotonal. But Wilson declines. He takes a big crunchy bite. PULL BACK as the sun goes down and Chuck reaches into the bowl again and dips an eel skin chip in the dip. Suddenly his shoe breaks! It's sandal made of woven yucca leaves. He bends down and fixes it, then heads on down the ledge. His hands are cut and bruised. He tries to get up, can't. Chuck sits back and examines his foot. His fingers come back covered with blood. He reaches out to steady himself, and leaves a HANDPRINT OF BLOOD on the rock. Chuck sticks the scalpel onto some coals to sterilize it. He holds it over his foot, takes a breath, then jabs in into the wound. The pain is intense. Chuck passes out. He collapses again. He runs into the water and starts to swim. He is so weak, however, he can end is a squirming crab. He walks carefully with it to the beach. Lowering the spear, he lets the crab slip off. It darts toward the water. Chuck heads it off, trying to avoid the snapping claws. He kicks it back toward the beach, then slams a rock down on it. He twists off a crab claw, expecting to see flaky white meat. But a crab has an exoskeleton. The flesh simply pours out, like mucous. This is too much. He needs the next step, from the raw to the cooked. The crucial next step from primitive man to the beginnings of civilization. Chuck positions a makeshift drill in a hole he has scooped out in a piece of driftwood. He spins the drill with great effort. Nothing. He quits, exhausted. He looks at his hands. They are raw and blistered. He feels like Job. He walks over and picks a few boxes up from the P. Chuck tears another box open. Out slide some legal papers covered with Post-its. In quick cuts, we see him dump out computer memory boards, some designer dresses, flowers, a pair of roller blades, a script with a red cover -- which he never reads. He takes a long drink from his canteen, and flinches. His tooth is starting to hurt. He fishes some Tylenol out of the surgeon's bag and takes two. Very carefully Chuck shaves with the surgeon's scalpel. Chuck checks out his new appearance in the water. Much better. A clean start now. He starts to rub again. He breathes hard, sweat pours off his face. He is really going for it, what the hell! A tiny wisp of smoke He draws a yellow spiral on his leg, then takes red and makes jagged lightning bolts on his chest on either side of the hand. Then his inner struggle ends. Then comes the FedEx box with the angel wings. Then Wilson. And he gently leads the raft into the lagoon. He jumps onto the raft, begins to paddle out toward where the surf crashes onto the reef. Chuck watches, times the waves, paddles like mad. He's committed. SCRAPE goes the first barrel, then the second, riding the receding wave. He's out! But the next wave is already surging forward. It smashes the raft against the reef! Coconuts and foodstuffs hurtle off the raft! The barrels cushion the impact. The raft tilts, spins, but stays outside the reef! The ropes holding the jugs of water break! The water sweeps overboard! The wave recedes again. Chuck recovers, paddles with all his strength, and then he's clear of the breakers! For a long moment he floats on the rollers, getting his breath. The water jugs float away, carried by the waves back into the lagoon. Chuck could go back and get them. If he were being prudent, he definitely would. But he's out. He might never get back out again. He stares at the lagoon and the receding water jugs. Then he stares at the island. Goodbye to all that. He turns and begins raising the sail. And we pull back until the ocean swallows the tiny raft and then we TILT DOWN AND... Chuck is gaunt, his clothes rotted. He lies looking over the side of the raft, spear in one hand, staring intently at the water. Dorados swim like specters, flashing and darting. Chuck stabs

What sports item does Chuck leave a bloody hand print on?

A volleyball

knees in the shallows. Suddenly a whole school of fish swims by him, moving in unison, like one creature, splitting around Chuck like mercury. He grabs at them desperately. Nothing. On some rocks he sees clusters of limpets. He takes a rock and tries to dislodge one, but it smashes into a soggy mess. Idly, Chuck takes out his wallet. The money is soaked. He lays it out to dry. He finds a PHOTOGRAPH OF KELLY, soaked and mushy. He tries to smooth it out. For a moment he is overcome. His face tightens, his eyes get moist. He stares out to sea. He picks up his wallet again and takes out a credit card. With his finger, he prods around in the mucous-like meat, then tilts up the shell and we see the gooey gray stuff slide off the shell into his mouth. He starts to spit it out. Tries to make himself like it. And he swallow it. But what's the point? Everything that was so valuable before is useless now. Covered in sweat, desperate and exhausted, he throws down his wooden spade. He lies on his back, breathing hard. Pulls his hat over his eyes. He grabs his sharpened stone, begins to attack the clay. For a moment, he feels the weight of his isolation. Then he allows himself a deep breath. There is order now, after all. Time is under control. He freezes, holding his spear motionless. Then he jabs at the crab -- misses! The crab scurries away toward the rocks. Chuck splashes after it, stabbing as he goes, falling, getting up, stabbing again. Suddenly one stab feels different. Chuck carefully lifts up the spear. On the end is a squirming crab. He walks carefully with it to the beach. Lowering the spear, he lets the crab slip off. It darts toward the water. Chuck heads it off, trying to avoid the snapping claws. He kicks it back toward the beach, then slams a rock down on it. He twists off a crab claw, expecting to see flaky white meat. But a crab has an exoskeleton. The flesh simply pours out, like mucous. This is too much. He needs the next step, from the raw to the cooked. The crucial next step from primitive man to the beginnings of civilization. Chuck positions a makeshift drill in a hole he has scooped out in a piece of driftwood. He spins the drill with great effort. Nothing. He quits, exhausted. He looks at his hands. They are raw and blistered. He feels like Job. He walks over and picks a few boxes up from the P. Chuck tears another box open. Out slide some legal papers covered with Post-its. In quick cuts, we see him dump out computer memory boards, some designer dresses, flowers, a pair of roller blades, a script with a red cover -- which he never reads. He takes a long drink from his canteen, and flinches. His tooth is starting to hurt. He fishes some Tylenol out of the surgeon's bag and takes two. Very carefully Chuck shaves with the surgeon's scalpel. Chuck checks out his new appearance in the water. Much better. A clean start now. He starts to rub again. He breathes hard, sweat pours off his face. He is really going for it, what the hell! A tiny wisp of smoke he is chewing, he cuts the meat into strips. When he is done, he takes the backbone, breaks it, and sucks on it. Fish scales shine in his hair, blood covers his chest. He reaches out to touch the fish strips. His hand is glowing too. Suddenly he sees other lights. A ship. A ship is out there. And he hears it, a humming in deep register. He waves his hands. He yells. His voice cracks, we can barely hear it over the ocean. The lights move on. His raft is rocked by the wake, rocked hard. Chuck is thrown into the water! He comes to the surface, sputtering. Where is the raft? He looks one way, then another. Darkness. This is the worst. He turns again in the water. There, dimly, he can see the glow from the fish he killed. The glow saves his life. He swims toward it. He pulls himself back on the raft. He lies there exhausted, the glow from the phosphorescence casting a greenish light on his face. Little bits of electricity jump off the mast. Saint Elmos fire jumps around Chuck's hand. Fascinated, he holds out his hand. The fire jumps from his hand to the mast. Suddenly lightning shoots from the sky and strikes the ocean! A huge spout of water explodes like a depth charge. The CRACK is intense, then rolls away. Chuck stares, then realizes the danger and throws himself down on the raft. Suddenly a wall of rain sweeps over him and the ocean begins to roll. The thunder is deafening. Lightning flashes bursts through the rain. Frantic, Chuck lets out the sea anchor as the raft scuds down a huge wave. The anchor The shell breaks to smithereens. Coconut milk splashes everywhere. Rotating a nut along its axis and carefully moving his fingers out of the way, he SMASHES the nut again. The shell splits! The precious liquid splashes out. Left inside is a swallow or two, which Chuck laps up eagerly. The milky white liquid dribbles down his face. Clouds scud in front of the sun. Beyond the reef the waves are high and churning. Chuck can see them pound onto the reef. This sinks in. Then Chuck gets an idea. But even that doesn't give him much hope. That sinks in. He stares idly out at the moonlight on the waves. Then not so idly. Something's out there, something floating on the tide. It's a body. Chuck turns it over. It's Al, one of the pilots, his face gray and waterlogged and very dead. He drags the body into the pit. Stares down at it. That could be me. He wants to say more, can't. He scoops some sand over the body. He scoops in some more sand. It's eerily like burying the tropical fish in his back yard. He looks over at the deep woods and down to the rocky point. Comes to a decision. He takes a drink of coconut, picks up his club and a coconut, sticks the stone knife in his pants. He's ready to go. He throws away the husk. He looks up, but the only sunlight reaching him is dappled from the canopy above him. The lava field narrows, forcing Chuck closer to the sea. He passes a series of CAVES, their mouths dark and mysterious and scary. He gives them a wide berth. Chuck huge jaws open and close. Very slowly the whale moves ahead of the raft, its vast body passing Chuck. Chuck rips a fillet off the line and throws it in front of the whale, which ignores it. The whale slowly sinks, then suddenly arches its huge back and heads straight for the bottom. For a moment, all that remains are the flukes, black and vertical against the dark blue sky. With one swoop, those flukes could destroy Chuck and his raft. But they don't do anything except slowly sink. Then it is gone. We are on Chuck's face as he stares at where the whale had been, the surface marked only by a ring of concentric ripples that reach out and gently rock the raft. He dips his hand into the ocean, splashes some sea water on his face, splutters it out, then licks his lips. He is so thirsty. He looks at the water jug, full now with his own vomit, turns away, begins to work on the sea anchor again. But the work makes him even thirstier. He looks at the jug again. Picks it up. Takes a long drink. Chuck listens. Doesn't hear anything. Chuck picks up the spear, stabs it, misses. Suddenly he has a fish on the end of the spear. It struggles, he scoops it onto the raft, brutally pounds on its head, twists the stone knife into its spine. The struggling stops. Chuck looks at the dead fish and begins to sob. He cries uncontrollably. As he cries he cuts off the head, pulls out the eyeballs, and eats each one. Then he sucks the marrow out of the head. Then takes the heart and eats that. Then eats the liver. As

Who is the only friend Chuck talks to on the island?

Wilson

knees in the shallows. Suddenly a whole school of fish swims by him, moving in unison, like one creature, splitting around Chuck like mercury. He grabs at them desperately. Nothing. On some rocks he sees clusters of limpets. He takes a rock and tries to dislodge one, but it smashes into a soggy mess. Idly, Chuck takes out his wallet. The money is soaked. He lays it out to dry. He finds a PHOTOGRAPH OF KELLY, soaked and mushy. He tries to smooth it out. For a moment he is overcome. His face tightens, his eyes get moist. He stares out to sea. He picks up his wallet again and takes out a credit card. With his finger, he prods around in the mucous-like meat, then tilts up the shell and we see the gooey gray stuff slide off the shell into his mouth. He starts to spit it out. Tries to make himself like it. And he swallow it. But what's the point? Everything that was so valuable before is useless now. Covered in sweat, desperate and exhausted, he throws down his wooden spade. He lies on his back, breathing hard. Pulls his hat over his eyes. He grabs his sharpened stone, begins to attack the clay. For a moment, he feels the weight of his isolation. Then he allows himself a deep breath. There is order now, after all. Time is under control. He freezes, holding his spear motionless. Then he jabs at the crab -- misses! The crab scurries away toward the rocks. Chuck splashes after it, stabbing as he goes, falling, getting up, stabbing again. Suddenly one stab feels different. Chuck carefully lifts up the spear. On the chime of obsidian flakes sways gently. The watch hangs on a stick. The Angel Box has the place of honor on one side. On the other side the Wilson soccer ball rests on a throne of rocks. Seaweed has been placed on the ball as hair. Clam shells have been stuck on for eyes, other shells form a mouth. A tube shell and conch form a pipe. He ties some fiber to a stick, then braids it into string, using both hands and his mouth for the three strands. He ties the string tightly around the shaft. He does his work automatically. As Chuck watches the sunset unfold, watches the whales going by in the darkened water, he takes some roasted eel chips, dips them into the breadfruit paste, and offers one to Wilson. His voice is flat, monotonal. But Wilson declines. He takes a big crunchy bite. PULL BACK as the sun goes down and Chuck reaches into the bowl again and dips an eel skin chip in the dip. Suddenly his shoe breaks! It's sandal made of woven yucca leaves. He bends down and fixes it, then heads on down the ledge. His hands are cut and bruised. He tries to get up, can't. Chuck sits back and examines his foot. His fingers come back covered with blood. He reaches out to steady himself, and leaves a HANDPRINT OF BLOOD on the rock. Chuck sticks the scalpel onto some coals to sterilize it. He holds it over his foot, takes a breath, then jabs in into the wound. The pain is intense. Chuck passes out. He collapses again. He runs into the water and starts to swim. He is so weak, however, he can nods, but there's something he wants to say. That's not all Stan wants to say. But Chuck is limping out the door. Slowly and painfully Chuck enters. He's quite a sight. She stands up. There's a long moment where they look at each other. Then she comes into his arms. Holds him tight. She's part laughing, part crying. Chuck is happy, he's still riding the high. Well, maybe a little, but who cares? He hasn't been hugged or barely touched in so long. She disengages, looks at him with that old smile. He meets her gaze, looks her over with a smile. He notices the ring on her hand. His responses come so quick. Chuck seems blissfully sure of himself. Kelly fishes for a photo, shows it to Chuck. It's a little girl with a dog. Chuck laughs. It is funny, sort of. Stan appears, takes in the scene. The few patients waiting are edged into the corners, trying to look occupied with something else. Stan examines the ropes around the logs. Kelly points at something on the raft. He's not feeling sorry for himself. It's just a fact. They look at the tiny raft. It speaks for itself. Kelly notices the sail, sees the writing on it. Kelly reads it to herself. Her eyes are moist. And he seems really to believe it. And he leaves. This interests Chuck to no end. He tries to put it into words, isn't quite sure how. Kelly looks down at the raft. It's so small. He has something more to say. She waits. And that's the point, isn't it? We are social animals. No man is an island. And the laughter comes again. only make a few strokes. He tries to yell as he swims... Choking and weak, he turns back and drags himself up on the beach. In the b.g., the sail dwindles into the distance. Furious, he kicks his signal fire, scattering the burnt-out coals. He slowly extends his hand and covers it, then pulls it away. Traces it with his fingers. Chuck covers his hand with paint and makes a handprint on the wall of the cave. He stands back and looks at it. Chuck picks up Wilson, thinks. He takes some charcoal out of his fire and draws eyebrows on the ball. Then, he mashes some berries, dips his fingers in the juice, and makes lips. He sticks shells on with clay for eyes. Then he looks at the face. He sits back and regards his companion. He gestures around the cave at the new paintings. But Wilson doesn't have an opinion. Idly Chuck takes down the Angel Box. For a long time he studies the wings on it. With a stick, he tries to draw a similar wing on the dusty floor of the cave. Dissatisfied, he wipes it away. He looks at the Angel Box. Casually he reaches over and cuts it open with a stone knife. Inside he finds two bottles of green salsa. And a letter. He reads over it. Visibly moved, Chuck puts down the letter. Chuck dips his finger into one of the bowls of colors and streaks it slowly across his face. To exorcise his loneliness, he will paint on the most expressive canvas there is: his own body. Chuck takes white paint and covers his hand. Then he presses it into his chest and makes a handprint. He draws a yellow spiral on his leg, then takes red and makes jagged lightning bolts on his chest on either side of the hand. Then his inner struggle ends. Then comes the FedEx box with the angel wings. Then Wilson. And he gently leads the raft into the lagoon. He jumps onto the raft, begins to paddle out toward where the surf crashes onto the reef. Chuck watches, times the waves, paddles like mad. He's committed. SCRAPE goes the first barrel, then the second, riding the receding wave. He's out! But the next wave is already surging forward. It smashes the raft against the reef! Coconuts and foodstuffs hurtle off the raft! The barrels cushion the impact. The raft tilts, spins, but stays outside the reef! The ropes holding the jugs of water break! The water sweeps overboard! The wave recedes again. Chuck recovers, paddles with all his strength, and then he's clear of the breakers! For a long moment he floats on the rollers, getting his breath. The water jugs float away, carried by the waves back into the lagoon. Chuck could go back and get them. If he were being prudent, he definitely would. But he's out. He might never get back out again. He stares at the lagoon and the receding water jugs. Then he stares at the island. Goodbye to all that. He turns and begins raising the sail. And we pull back until the ocean swallows the tiny raft and then we TILT DOWN AND... Chuck is gaunt, his clothes rotted. He lies looking over the side of the raft, spear in one hand, staring intently at the water. Dorados swim like specters, flashing and darting. Chuck stabs

Why can Kelly and Chuck not be together when he returns?

They can't get married because of her new family and he wasn't there for her before .

knees in the shallows. Suddenly a whole school of fish swims by him, moving in unison, like one creature, splitting around Chuck like mercury. He grabs at them desperately. Nothing. On some rocks he sees clusters of limpets. He takes a rock and tries to dislodge one, but it smashes into a soggy mess. Idly, Chuck takes out his wallet. The money is soaked. He lays it out to dry. He finds a PHOTOGRAPH OF KELLY, soaked and mushy. He tries to smooth it out. For a moment he is overcome. His face tightens, his eyes get moist. He stares out to sea. He picks up his wallet again and takes out a credit card. With his finger, he prods around in the mucous-like meat, then tilts up the shell and we see the gooey gray stuff slide off the shell into his mouth. He starts to spit it out. Tries to make himself like it. And he swallow it. But what's the point? Everything that was so valuable before is useless now. Covered in sweat, desperate and exhausted, he throws down his wooden spade. He lies on his back, breathing hard. Pulls his hat over his eyes. He grabs his sharpened stone, begins to attack the clay. For a moment, he feels the weight of his isolation. Then he allows himself a deep breath. There is order now, after all. Time is under control. He freezes, holding his spear motionless. Then he jabs at the crab -- misses! The crab scurries away toward the rocks. Chuck splashes after it, stabbing as he goes, falling, getting up, stabbing again. Suddenly one stab feels different. Chuck carefully lifts up the spear. On the an Australian correspondent standing on Chuck's beach. Chuck is staring at the screen, seeing his cave, seeing all those years. On the screen we see a photograph of Chuck. The waitress looks over at Chuck. The other clients look at him too. The waitress comes over. Chuck looks down at his doodling. Hesitates. Then signs his name. Chuck's Mom, dressed in white with a hairnet, enters a windowed office in the b.g. Through the window we see her hug Chuck. Chuck gestures, no, I'm full. She puts down the spoon. He looks around the house, everything in its place. His mother has been here for forty years. There's a big crack running down from the ceiling. She studies him for a moment. He does, but that's not it entirely. She looks at him. She knows her boy. She looks at him, thinks about this. A WOMAN, BETTINA, answers the door -- THE woman from the beginning. She wears cut-off jeans and a blue work shirt covered with paint. There's a tattoo on her ankle. The woman stares in disbelief at the package she hasn't seen in years and never expected to see again. Chuck displays a FedEx badge. Bettina notices Chuck's bicycle. Bettina stares at the package, her own memories coming back. She holds the box and studies him for a long moment. Something -- the look on his face, the extraordinary reappearance of this long-lost package -- makes her curious. She lets Chuck in the door. They smile awkwardly at each other. She starts to open it. She's opened the package. She pulls out the bottles of salsa and the letter. There is a moment where neither knows what to say. Her eyes start to register recognition. only make a few strokes. He tries to yell as he swims... Choking and weak, he turns back and drags himself up on the beach. In the b.g., the sail dwindles into the distance. Furious, he kicks his signal fire, scattering the burnt-out coals. He slowly extends his hand and covers it, then pulls it away. Traces it with his fingers. Chuck covers his hand with paint and makes a handprint on the wall of the cave. He stands back and looks at it. Chuck picks up Wilson, thinks. He takes some charcoal out of his fire and draws eyebrows on the ball. Then, he mashes some berries, dips his fingers in the juice, and makes lips. He sticks shells on with clay for eyes. Then he looks at the face. He sits back and regards his companion. He gestures around the cave at the new paintings. But Wilson doesn't have an opinion. Idly Chuck takes down the Angel Box. For a long time he studies the wings on it. With a stick, he tries to draw a similar wing on the dusty floor of the cave. Dissatisfied, he wipes it away. He looks at the Angel Box. Casually he reaches over and cuts it open with a stone knife. Inside he finds two bottles of green salsa. And a letter. He reads over it. Visibly moved, Chuck puts down the letter. Chuck dips his finger into one of the bowls of colors and streaks it slowly across his face. To exorcise his loneliness, he will paint on the most expressive canvas there is: his own body. Chuck takes white paint and covers his hand. Then he presses it into his chest and makes a handprint. He draws a yellow spiral on his leg, then takes red and makes jagged lightning bolts on his chest on either side of the hand. Then his inner struggle ends. Then comes the FedEx box with the angel wings. Then Wilson. And he gently leads the raft into the lagoon. He jumps onto the raft, begins to paddle out toward where the surf crashes onto the reef. Chuck watches, times the waves, paddles like mad. He's committed. SCRAPE goes the first barrel, then the second, riding the receding wave. He's out! But the next wave is already surging forward. It smashes the raft against the reef! Coconuts and foodstuffs hurtle off the raft! The barrels cushion the impact. The raft tilts, spins, but stays outside the reef! The ropes holding the jugs of water break! The water sweeps overboard! The wave recedes again. Chuck recovers, paddles with all his strength, and then he's clear of the breakers! For a long moment he floats on the rollers, getting his breath. The water jugs float away, carried by the waves back into the lagoon. Chuck could go back and get them. If he were being prudent, he definitely would. But he's out. He might never get back out again. He stares at the lagoon and the receding water jugs. Then he stares at the island. Goodbye to all that. He turns and begins raising the sail. And we pull back until the ocean swallows the tiny raft and then we TILT DOWN AND... Chuck is gaunt, his clothes rotted. He lies looking over the side of the raft, spear in one hand, staring intently at the water. Dorados swim like specters, flashing and darting. Chuck stabs back in the water and floats there, looking up at the sky. He brings the hammer down hard on the chisel! The screen goes BLACK as Chuck's SCREAM continues UNDER. The hand wrapped around the spear is scarred and brown as a berry. It holds the spear perfectly still. The watch is gone. We come around slowly until we see Chuck's face. The eyes say it all. They stare out with a survivor's intensity, staring at the water, unblinking. This is the man who used to splash futilely about in the water trying to fish. This is the FedEx man who was plugged into the tumult of activity and energy, surrounded by technology and human activity at its most intense, devoted to making seconds count. Now he is utterly alone, and utterly still. And now he has all the time in the world. Suddenly, without an once of wasted motion, he shoots the spear forward at a low angle. It quivers, stuck on the bottom. He pulls it out with a practiced twist. On the end is a struggling fish. But this isn't a thrill anymore. It's another day at the office. Clam shell spirals weave in and out around the fire hole. Strips of eel jerky and fish hang drying from racks. Tools are lined up neatly: digging sticks, stone hammers and saws, spears neatly hafted onto shafts, drills, awls. Bits and pieces of feathers, skins, bones, rags, leaves -- are all neatly arranged. Strings and cords hang from hooks. Coconut bowls and cooking rocks form a small kitchen. A raincoat and rain-hat woven of palm fronds is neatly draped over a frame. Evocative pieces of driftwood decorate the room. A wind

Where does Chuck go to deliver the last package he saved from the crash?

Texas

chime of obsidian flakes sways gently. The watch hangs on a stick. The Angel Box has the place of honor on one side. On the other side the Wilson soccer ball rests on a throne of rocks. Seaweed has been placed on the ball as hair. Clam shells have been stuck on for eyes, other shells form a mouth. A tube shell and conch form a pipe. He ties some fiber to a stick, then braids it into string, using both hands and his mouth for the three strands. He ties the string tightly around the shaft. He does his work automatically. As Chuck watches the sunset unfold, watches the whales going by in the darkened water, he takes some roasted eel chips, dips them into the breadfruit paste, and offers one to Wilson. His voice is flat, monotonal. But Wilson declines. He takes a big crunchy bite. PULL BACK as the sun goes down and Chuck reaches into the bowl again and dips an eel skin chip in the dip. Suddenly his shoe breaks! It's sandal made of woven yucca leaves. He bends down and fixes it, then heads on down the ledge. His hands are cut and bruised. He tries to get up, can't. Chuck sits back and examines his foot. His fingers come back covered with blood. He reaches out to steady himself, and leaves a HANDPRINT OF BLOOD on the rock. Chuck sticks the scalpel onto some coals to sterilize it. He holds it over his foot, takes a breath, then jabs in into the wound. The pain is intense. Chuck passes out. He collapses again. He runs into the water and starts to swim. He is so weak, however, he can only make a few strokes. He tries to yell as he swims... Choking and weak, he turns back and drags himself up on the beach. In the b.g., the sail dwindles into the distance. Furious, he kicks his signal fire, scattering the burnt-out coals. He slowly extends his hand and covers it, then pulls it away. Traces it with his fingers. Chuck covers his hand with paint and makes a handprint on the wall of the cave. He stands back and looks at it. Chuck picks up Wilson, thinks. He takes some charcoal out of his fire and draws eyebrows on the ball. Then, he mashes some berries, dips his fingers in the juice, and makes lips. He sticks shells on with clay for eyes. Then he looks at the face. He sits back and regards his companion. He gestures around the cave at the new paintings. But Wilson doesn't have an opinion. Idly Chuck takes down the Angel Box. For a long time he studies the wings on it. With a stick, he tries to draw a similar wing on the dusty floor of the cave. Dissatisfied, he wipes it away. He looks at the Angel Box. Casually he reaches over and cuts it open with a stone knife. Inside he finds two bottles of green salsa. And a letter. He reads over it. Visibly moved, Chuck puts down the letter. Chuck dips his finger into one of the bowls of colors and streaks it slowly across his face. To exorcise his loneliness, he will paint on the most expressive canvas there is: his own body. Chuck takes white paint and covers his hand. Then he presses it into his chest and makes a handprint. an Australian correspondent standing on Chuck's beach. Chuck is staring at the screen, seeing his cave, seeing all those years. On the screen we see a photograph of Chuck. The waitress looks over at Chuck. The other clients look at him too. The waitress comes over. Chuck looks down at his doodling. Hesitates. Then signs his name. Chuck's Mom, dressed in white with a hairnet, enters a windowed office in the b.g. Through the window we see her hug Chuck. Chuck gestures, no, I'm full. She puts down the spoon. He looks around the house, everything in its place. His mother has been here for forty years. There's a big crack running down from the ceiling. She studies him for a moment. He does, but that's not it entirely. She looks at him. She knows her boy. She looks at him, thinks about this. A WOMAN, BETTINA, answers the door -- THE woman from the beginning. She wears cut-off jeans and a blue work shirt covered with paint. There's a tattoo on her ankle. The woman stares in disbelief at the package she hasn't seen in years and never expected to see again. Chuck displays a FedEx badge. Bettina notices Chuck's bicycle. Bettina stares at the package, her own memories coming back. She holds the box and studies him for a long moment. Something -- the look on his face, the extraordinary reappearance of this long-lost package -- makes her curious. She lets Chuck in the door. They smile awkwardly at each other. She starts to open it. She's opened the package. She pulls out the bottles of salsa and the letter. There is a moment where neither knows what to say. Her eyes start to register recognition. But now he is really thirsty. We WALK with Chuck up the beach. Beneath the palms he sees a couple of coconuts. He picks one of them up and studies it. It's heavy, almost the size of a volleyball. How to get in it? He throws it down on a rock. The coconut just bounces off. He wedges the coconut between two rocks, then throws a rock down on it. It bounces off. He throws down a bigger rock. It smashes on the rocks and chips. Chuck picks up the rock. OW! Where the rock had chipped the edge is sharp. It cuts him. The blood stains the rock a bright red. Chuck sucks on his finger, then he gets an idea -- the same idea primitive man first got when he discovered stone tools. He picks up the rock, test the edge. Sharp -- really sharp. He throws another rock down, but it doesn't break. He picks up another rock and strikes the first one. Then again, harder. And again. A large flake shoots off. This edge is even sharper. He has a knife. Chuck clumsily sharpens a stick with the sharp rock. Chuck brings the sharpened stick down hard on the coconut, but the stick slides off, sending the coconut rolling away. Chuck positions the stick, pointed end up, in a hole, then SLAMS the coconut down hard on it. Success! The green nut of the coconut splits. The brown inner nut is free! He smashes the nut with a rock, but -- OW! -- he hits his hand! Chuck licks his fingers, but he is so thirsty there's no more saliva. He smashes again. blackened mess. Chuck stares at it. Chuck displays the puppy. Chuck hesitates just a moment. This is an old, sore subject. He drops the turkey giblets into the trash. Chuck can't believe this. Mom goes to the freezer and takes out some frozen strawberries. Mom mashes the block of frozen strawberries with a fork to separate the strawberries from the ice. Roger grins at him. This is just how they are. They all sit down. Mom brings the slushy frozen strawberries to the table, squirts on some Reddi-whip. Looks pointedly at Chuck. Not a timely topic with Chuck. Chuck takes a bite, winces a little as the cold strawberries hit his teeth. She looks pointedly at Chuck. Chuck finishes the drain pipe. Gives it a thunk with his finger. Chuck is beside it, slumped down on the desk. Asleep. She nods, used to this. The box squawks. The TV screen rolls an imperfect image. A Technician is fiddling with the TV set. The squawk box hums and crackles. Nothing. Chuck turns to the Technician. Chuck turns to Leslie. Chuck looks over at Stan. And Stan is impressed. Kelly can't stay mad. She's half-laughing, half-wanting-to-cry. And then it hits her. She stares at him for a long moment, then at the puppy. He hands her the dog. She kisses the puppy. Chuck settles into his seat. Al has an Australian accent. He puts in his ear plugs and takes out his Valium. He swallows one, then thinks, and swallows two more. Then he turns on his Walkman to the Rolling Stones, puts the mask over his eyes, and, as usual, goes to sleep. Chuck tries to steady himself against the wall. This is nightmarish. Is this really happening? Chuck

What is the symbol on the package and on the back of the woman's truck?

Angel wings

the unoccupied bed, and the scene ends looking ACROSS the sleeping profile of THE PATIENT in the other bed as Schaefer and his girl thump away at each other with much creaking of springs, moans, groans, giggles and the white-limbed patterns of fornication. Schaefer smiles, grunts, sleeps on. NURSE'S P.O.V.: Intern Dr. Schaefer is lying on this bed, rigid, eyes dilated, pupils staring unseeing. An I.V. tube sticks out of his naked right arm. Nurse Perez doesn't quite know what to make of the fact that Dr. Schaefer is lying on that bed with an I.V. tube sticking out of him looking dead. Frowning, she reaches out a tentative hand to shake his naked shoulder. There is, of course, no response. A terrible suspicion enters Nurse Perez's mind, and she closes her eyes and sighs a long shuddering sigh. Then she opens her eyes and, with a second and briefer sigh, reaches for Schaefer's neck to take his pulse. Clearly, the result is not encouraging. She sighs another short sigh and regards Schaefer's unblinking, dilated pupils. It's all a bit too much for her; she shuffles to the window and stares out into the gray morning where things are a little more comprehensible. Once again, she returns to the bed, regards Schaefer's death mask. She raises the bedsheet and, for one short but appreciative moment, considers Schaefer's naked body. She lets the bedsheet carefully down. She sighs again. She sighs, turns and leaves the room. With a short, irritable sigh, Mrs. Reardon abandons her paperwork and heads down the west corridor, followed by Nurses Perez and Rivers. CAMERA TRACKS as Mrs. Reardon turns to Nurse Rivers. DR. HERBERT BOCK, 53 years old, a large man, bulky, disheveled, apparently fell asleep in a chair while watching television the night before. The Room area to lean into the Supervisor's Office. The THIRD NURSE leans back into the Supervisor's Office to relay this information. This is apparently good news, for we hear someone saying An orderly rumbles by with an E.K.G. machine. O.R. Nursing Supervisor DOROTHY KIMBALL, a pleasant lady in her late thirties, leans out of her office to speak to one of the lounging orderlies. The orderly detaches himself from his cronies and exits. It is into this atmosphere of subdued febrility that William Mead is wheeled. Indeed, a stretcher is being wheeled out of the Holding Room. The patient is sedated and covered. As the orderly wheels her past CAMERA, we may recognize the pale, sleeping profile of Miss Campanella, the nurse who had been coshed with a sandbag not many scenes ago. A CIRCULATING NURSE comes through the glass doors, examines the chart dangling from the stretcher. The orderly wheels the silent Miss Campanella off to Operating Room Three, as Dr. Welbeck, in his natty blue suit, carrying his camel coat, turns in from the outer corridor and examines the blackboard. He goes back to... The anesthesiologist, DR. CHU, injects pentathol in the I.V. tube. The RESIDENT ANESTHESIOLOGIST trundles over the oxygen tank, takes the hypodermic syringe from Dr. Chu, who now applies the oxygen mask to the enmarbled profile of the patient. He studies the gauges and equipment around him at the head of the operating table. The room galvanizes into the swift, silent activity of a chest massage. Dr. Mallory, standing and stretching in the back of the room, turns and moves toward the off-screen patient. He begins a vigorous rhythmic massage of the patient's rib cage over the heart. Dr. Mallory thumps the patient's chest hard with his fist, and the others, likewise, go to work. The Hospital was founded in the late 19th century, and there are still a few begrimed Victorian Bedlams and Bastilles among the buildings. Mostly though, it is Medical Modern 1971, white and chrome and lots of glass and concrete shafts and rotundas. A spanking new Community Mental Health Clinic towers among the tenements at the northern end of the complex. On the far side of First Avenue, a twenty-story apartment house with recessed balconies and picture windows to house the resident staff has just recently been completed, and next to it, eight ghetto buildings are being demolished to make way -- according to the construction company's sign -- for a new Drug Rehabilitation Center, to be completed in 1973, we should all live so long. This is where the shattering SOUNDS OF CONSTRUCTION are coming from. A block length of generators and cement and demolition machines are POUNDING, CRASHING, SCREAMING. Traffic HONKS and BRAYS up First Avenue. It is a cold spring morning -- 10:00 A.M. A 1966 station wagon pulls up to the Holly Pavilion. A tiny, fragile, white-bearded OLD MAN, almost lost in his overcoat, is helped from the rear of a station wagon and slowly led to the entrance doors by a middle-aged nurse. The shrouded body of the old man is wheeled out of the room. CAMERA STAYS on the vacated bed. PAN from bed to Schaefer, now alone in the room and regarding the empty bed with frowning interest. Schaefer is a scraggly young fellow, bespectacled, with a contemporary mess of hair and a swinging unkempt moustachio. HOLD on Schaefer. Dr. Schaefer moves for the phone on the table between the two beds. Schaefer speaks softly into the phone. FREEZE on CLOSE-UP of the beaming, lubricious Schaefer on phone as They eventually wind up on storms over to Miss Lebow. He strides, followed by Dr. Lagerman, into... The phone RINGS. Bock seizes it. This gives Bock pause. He blinks at Lagerman. Schaefer's naked white cadaver is stretched out on an operating table. He has been opened up and all his vital organs are being excised. It's bloody. The autopsy is being performed by DR. BREWSTER, the Resident in Pathology, dressed in surgical scrub. He knocks on the glass window of the door separating the laboratory from the operating room. Dr. Brewster turns from his gory chore. Bock makes a gesture saying, "How much longer?" Brewster raises ten blood-drenched rubber-gloved fingers. Bock turns and shuffles across the lab for the door out. He goes down... Mrs. Dunne nods. Nurse Devine makes her way silently down the sleeping doors to... Mead sleeps on. Expressionlessly, Nurse Devine extracts Mead's right arm from under the sheets, wets a swab with alcohol and rubs down the vein. The needle slides into Mead's vein. OVER THIS, we begin to hear a distant sibilant HISSING, indistinct like the leakage of a bad heart. There is also an occasional distinctly human but not quite civilized sound. CAMERA PULLS BACK SLOWLY to Nurse Devine withdrawing the needle, looking up, for she too has heard the soft, strange sounds. They emanate from behind the curtains of the other bed. Nurse Devine returns the syringe to the tray, gathers her things and pads silently around Mead's bed to Drummond's bed. With her free hand, she opens the curtains a little and stares in. When Nurse Devine draws the curtains, Barbara frowns at Nurse Devine, holds a cautioning finger to her lips and draws the curtains closed again. Nurse Devine, carrying her porcelain tray, exits. He heads for the Nurses' Station as Nurse Devine comes down the The scrub nurse is applying electrode paste to the defibrillators. Dr. Mallory yanks the sheets and hospital shirt off the patient and begins very rigorous massage of the exposed ribs; we can hear one rib crack. Dr. Chu, who has been inserting some suprel and bicarbonate into the tube of the patient's I.V., is frowning at her rigid, white-capped face. He leans over to check the E.K.G. readings. Mallory straddles the patient. He's doing heavy heart massage. Dr. Chu pushes back, the operating cap on the patient's head, revealing jet-black hair. Mallory starts to massage again. Dr. Chu stares blankly at the patient's face, then looks up at the sweating surgeon, perched on the operating table, rhythmically crushing away at the patient's rib cage. Dr. Mallory, now pausing for a moment, looks up. He is beaded with sweat. He massages away. Another rib cracks. Mrs. Christie's electric pocket-pager BEEPS. Miss McGuire leans in from the secretaries' office. She hangs up, stands, goes out into... Apparently, none of these three. Mrs. Christie turns in from the outer corridor. Normal Operating Room activity flows by: patients wheeled to and from their various surgeries, surgeons checking the blackboard, staff doctors, orderlies keeping the noise level low but steady. Hitchcock shrugs helplessly. Mrs. Kimball, Mrs. Christie, Hitchcock and Sloan push through the glass doors to the crossroads of the operating rooms. Through each window, we see operating crews hacking away. They gather in anticipation outside O.R. Three and peer over each other's shoulders into the room where the operating crew is hunched over the open-heart massage. The masked circulating nurse looks up, notices the audience at the door, and gives a hopeless shrug. During this maelstrom, the phone at Mead's elbow RINGS. Mead answers it, listens, nods, returns the receiver, stand and slips out

WHAT IS DR. BOCK'S POSITION AT A MANHATTAN TEACHING HOSPITAL?

CHIEF OF MEDICINE

Room area to lean into the Supervisor's Office. The THIRD NURSE leans back into the Supervisor's Office to relay this information. This is apparently good news, for we hear someone saying An orderly rumbles by with an E.K.G. machine. O.R. Nursing Supervisor DOROTHY KIMBALL, a pleasant lady in her late thirties, leans out of her office to speak to one of the lounging orderlies. The orderly detaches himself from his cronies and exits. It is into this atmosphere of subdued febrility that William Mead is wheeled. Indeed, a stretcher is being wheeled out of the Holding Room. The patient is sedated and covered. As the orderly wheels her past CAMERA, we may recognize the pale, sleeping profile of Miss Campanella, the nurse who had been coshed with a sandbag not many scenes ago. A CIRCULATING NURSE comes through the glass doors, examines the chart dangling from the stretcher. The orderly wheels the silent Miss Campanella off to Operating Room Three, as Dr. Welbeck, in his natty blue suit, carrying his camel coat, turns in from the outer corridor and examines the blackboard. He goes back to... The anesthesiologist, DR. CHU, injects pentathol in the I.V. tube. The RESIDENT ANESTHESIOLOGIST trundles over the oxygen tank, takes the hypodermic syringe from Dr. Chu, who now applies the oxygen mask to the enmarbled profile of the patient. He studies the gauges and equipment around him at the head of the operating table. The room galvanizes into the swift, silent activity of a chest massage. Dr. Mallory, standing and stretching in the back of the room, turns and moves toward the off-screen patient. He begins a vigorous rhythmic massage of the patient's rib cage over the heart. Dr. Mallory thumps the patient's chest hard with his fist, and the others, likewise, go to work. on the phones. The triage nurse takes the history of the first in a line of five people seeking admission even as she answers her phone. We watch Miss Aronovici and the other nurse and Dr. Spezio and his two interns, the two attendants -- all busy with one patient or another. ACROSS Drummond, white-uniformed, standing in the back against the filing cabinets and linens, watching the the new patients trickle and crowd in. At the Admitting Desk, a MAN in his forties is being signed in by a uniformed cop. CAMERA JUST STARES at the pageant of pain. They hurry into the Admitting Room past a nurse and into the... On screen we continue watching the scene of the overdose case treatment, as the live-action sound in the room fades behind Drummond's tale. REACTION SHOT of Drummond staring at this ceaseless panorama of pain, tears streaking down his cheeks. Drummond turns to the voice. CAMERA PULLS BACK to include the man who had been brought into the E.R. by a uniformed cop. PAN SLOWLY to Drummond who stares at the Nameless Man. In BACKGROUND the door opens and Mrs. Cushing, the lady from accounting, enters. She calls out in her annoying voice from a chart. Bock holds Drummond's coat and hat and crosses to take his arm. He finds the entranced Drummond as rigid as a statue. They both hurry out of the room. Drummond remains enmarbled in his trance. CAMERA SUDDENLY MOVES DOWN to William Mead, whose eyes now open; he has heard it all. In background, Drummond, suddenly released from his catatonic trance, heads for the armoire and extracts the white trousers of Dr. Schaefer's uniform. He puts them on, tucking in the tails of his hospital shift. He notices William Mead staring at him. William Mead the airway and the ambu tube into Welbeck's mouth and pumps in air by hand. Bock massages away. She follows Morse in as, from the lobby corner, two technicians come racing a max cart and an I.V. stand before them. Behind them, a bewildered Hitchcock moves into view, trying to determine what's going on. Hitchcock looks down at the sheeted figure hunched on the bed parked in the hallway and slowly pulls the sheet off his head. William Mead stares up at him like a hunted animal. Hitchcock covers Mead's head again. If we can see anything of Welbeck through other bodies, we notice almost all his clothes have been ripped off his body. Dr. Loomis replaces Barbara. The two nursing supervisors have been getting the max cart ready, snapping up the gateleg-footrest and attaching the I.V. tube to the oxygen jar, and that to the ambu bag. Drs. Loomis, Bock and Morse struggle to lift the the nearly naked dead weight of Dr. Welbeck up from the floor and onto the max cart. Dr. Morse has picked up Drummond's chart from the bed where Welbeck had left it. CLOSE-UP of Bock trying to hoist Welbeck and looking up slowly. Bock cocks his head to him. Bock looks across to Barbara, now helping out at the max cart. She looks back at Bock. She shrugs. He shrugs. They exchange a smile. Straining under the effort, the three doctors get Welbeck off the floor. Mrs. Donovan exits into... Hitchcock silently thanks God. Welbeck's body is finally on the max cart. Nurses and doctors converge on him. Dr. Loomis sets about intubating Welbeck, and the Nursing Supervisor begins clamping the metal bands of the E.K.G. machine on each of Welbeck's extremities. While all this goes on, Bock and Barbara have picked up The Hospital was founded in the late 19th century, and there are still a few begrimed Victorian Bedlams and Bastilles among the buildings. Mostly though, it is Medical Modern 1971, white and chrome and lots of glass and concrete shafts and rotundas. A spanking new Community Mental Health Clinic towers among the tenements at the northern end of the complex. On the far side of First Avenue, a twenty-story apartment house with recessed balconies and picture windows to house the resident staff has just recently been completed, and next to it, eight ghetto buildings are being demolished to make way -- according to the construction company's sign -- for a new Drug Rehabilitation Center, to be completed in 1973, we should all live so long. This is where the shattering SOUNDS OF CONSTRUCTION are coming from. A block length of generators and cement and demolition machines are POUNDING, CRASHING, SCREAMING. Traffic HONKS and BRAYS up First Avenue. It is a cold spring morning -- 10:00 A.M. A 1966 station wagon pulls up to the Holly Pavilion. A tiny, fragile, white-bearded OLD MAN, almost lost in his overcoat, is helped from the rear of a station wagon and slowly led to the entrance doors by a middle-aged nurse. The shrouded body of the old man is wheeled out of the room. CAMERA STAYS on the vacated bed. PAN from bed to Schaefer, now alone in the room and regarding the empty bed with frowning interest. Schaefer is a scraggly young fellow, bespectacled, with a contemporary mess of hair and a swinging unkempt moustachio. HOLD on Schaefer. Dr. Schaefer moves for the phone on the table between the two beds. Schaefer speaks softly into the phone. FREEZE on CLOSE-UP of the beaming, lubricious Schaefer on phone as They eventually wind up on trying to persuade the young woman of something. The young woman and the Indian stand absolutely still, silent, impassive. The minister is more fidgety. Bock and Brubaker, trailed by young doctors, move into the TV room. Her phone RINGS. She picks it up. To a man on line at her desk, thrusting his chart out to her. She makes her way to the door and goes out into... Facing the desk are six curtained treatment rooms, mostly open to view. Behind the desk are a supply room and another treatment room. Both are occupied, the former by a PARANOID LADY wringing her hands in a paranoid rush and listened to by a very patient young intern. ...and in the other room, a man in his thirties is being treated for some sort of head lacerations. In one treatment room, the Chief of Emergency Service, DR. SPEZIO, a man in his late thirties, along with an intern, an anesthesiologist and a nurse, is bent over a naked and comatose young black woman of eighteen, covered somewhat with a sheet. She's a junkie, being intubated, i.e. a small endotracheal tube has been inserted into her mouth. This is the most melodramatic of the varied activity here. A middle-aged man complaining of chest pains is lying clothed in another treatment room; a nurse attends him. An asthmatic middle-aged woman sits in still another room being administered her 500 mg. of amenophylene subcutaneously. The curtains on another room are drawn for privacy. On chairs in the corner sit a teenage boy with a badly sprained ankle and an elderly man bathing his hand in an enamel basin held in his lap. A young mother with a five-year-old daughter with a badly cut arm is being attended to by the back wall. The Emergency Room

WHAT WAS THE ANNEXATION PLANS FOR AN ADJACENT APARTMENT BUILDING?

A DRUG REHABILITATION CENTER

the unoccupied bed, and the scene ends looking ACROSS the sleeping profile of THE PATIENT in the other bed as Schaefer and his girl thump away at each other with much creaking of springs, moans, groans, giggles and the white-limbed patterns of fornication. Schaefer smiles, grunts, sleeps on. NURSE'S P.O.V.: Intern Dr. Schaefer is lying on this bed, rigid, eyes dilated, pupils staring unseeing. An I.V. tube sticks out of his naked right arm. Nurse Perez doesn't quite know what to make of the fact that Dr. Schaefer is lying on that bed with an I.V. tube sticking out of him looking dead. Frowning, she reaches out a tentative hand to shake his naked shoulder. There is, of course, no response. A terrible suspicion enters Nurse Perez's mind, and she closes her eyes and sighs a long shuddering sigh. Then she opens her eyes and, with a second and briefer sigh, reaches for Schaefer's neck to take his pulse. Clearly, the result is not encouraging. She sighs another short sigh and regards Schaefer's unblinking, dilated pupils. It's all a bit too much for her; she shuffles to the window and stares out into the gray morning where things are a little more comprehensible. Once again, she returns to the bed, regards Schaefer's death mask. She raises the bedsheet and, for one short but appreciative moment, considers Schaefer's naked body. She lets the bedsheet carefully down. She sighs again. She sighs, turns and leaves the room. With a short, irritable sigh, Mrs. Reardon abandons her paperwork and heads down the west corridor, followed by Nurses Perez and Rivers. CAMERA TRACKS as Mrs. Reardon turns to Nurse Rivers. DR. HERBERT BOCK, 53 years old, a large man, bulky, disheveled, apparently fell asleep in a chair while watching television the night before. The on the phones. The triage nurse takes the history of the first in a line of five people seeking admission even as she answers her phone. We watch Miss Aronovici and the other nurse and Dr. Spezio and his two interns, the two attendants -- all busy with one patient or another. ACROSS Drummond, white-uniformed, standing in the back against the filing cabinets and linens, watching the the new patients trickle and crowd in. At the Admitting Desk, a MAN in his forties is being signed in by a uniformed cop. CAMERA JUST STARES at the pageant of pain. They hurry into the Admitting Room past a nurse and into the... On screen we continue watching the scene of the overdose case treatment, as the live-action sound in the room fades behind Drummond's tale. REACTION SHOT of Drummond staring at this ceaseless panorama of pain, tears streaking down his cheeks. Drummond turns to the voice. CAMERA PULLS BACK to include the man who had been brought into the E.R. by a uniformed cop. PAN SLOWLY to Drummond who stares at the Nameless Man. In BACKGROUND the door opens and Mrs. Cushing, the lady from accounting, enters. She calls out in her annoying voice from a chart. Bock holds Drummond's coat and hat and crosses to take his arm. He finds the entranced Drummond as rigid as a statue. They both hurry out of the room. Drummond remains enmarbled in his trance. CAMERA SUDDENLY MOVES DOWN to William Mead, whose eyes now open; he has heard it all. In background, Drummond, suddenly released from his catatonic trance, heads for the armoire and extracts the white trousers of Dr. Schaefer's uniform. He puts them on, tucking in the tails of his hospital shift. He notices William Mead staring at him. William Mead the airway and the ambu tube into Welbeck's mouth and pumps in air by hand. Bock massages away. She follows Morse in as, from the lobby corner, two technicians come racing a max cart and an I.V. stand before them. Behind them, a bewildered Hitchcock moves into view, trying to determine what's going on. Hitchcock looks down at the sheeted figure hunched on the bed parked in the hallway and slowly pulls the sheet off his head. William Mead stares up at him like a hunted animal. Hitchcock covers Mead's head again. If we can see anything of Welbeck through other bodies, we notice almost all his clothes have been ripped off his body. Dr. Loomis replaces Barbara. The two nursing supervisors have been getting the max cart ready, snapping up the gateleg-footrest and attaching the I.V. tube to the oxygen jar, and that to the ambu bag. Drs. Loomis, Bock and Morse struggle to lift the the nearly naked dead weight of Dr. Welbeck up from the floor and onto the max cart. Dr. Morse has picked up Drummond's chart from the bed where Welbeck had left it. CLOSE-UP of Bock trying to hoist Welbeck and looking up slowly. Bock cocks his head to him. Bock looks across to Barbara, now helping out at the max cart. She looks back at Bock. She shrugs. He shrugs. They exchange a smile. Straining under the effort, the three doctors get Welbeck off the floor. Mrs. Donovan exits into... Hitchcock silently thanks God. Welbeck's body is finally on the max cart. Nurses and doctors converge on him. Dr. Loomis sets about intubating Welbeck, and the Nursing Supervisor begins clamping the metal bands of the E.K.G. machine on each of Welbeck's extremities. While all this goes on, Bock and Barbara have picked up storms over to Miss Lebow. He strides, followed by Dr. Lagerman, into... The phone RINGS. Bock seizes it. This gives Bock pause. He blinks at Lagerman. Schaefer's naked white cadaver is stretched out on an operating table. He has been opened up and all his vital organs are being excised. It's bloody. The autopsy is being performed by DR. BREWSTER, the Resident in Pathology, dressed in surgical scrub. He knocks on the glass window of the door separating the laboratory from the operating room. Dr. Brewster turns from his gory chore. Bock makes a gesture saying, "How much longer?" Brewster raises ten blood-drenched rubber-gloved fingers. Bock turns and shuffles across the lab for the door out. He goes down... Mrs. Dunne nods. Nurse Devine makes her way silently down the sleeping doors to... Mead sleeps on. Expressionlessly, Nurse Devine extracts Mead's right arm from under the sheets, wets a swab with alcohol and rubs down the vein. The needle slides into Mead's vein. OVER THIS, we begin to hear a distant sibilant HISSING, indistinct like the leakage of a bad heart. There is also an occasional distinctly human but not quite civilized sound. CAMERA PULLS BACK SLOWLY to Nurse Devine withdrawing the needle, looking up, for she too has heard the soft, strange sounds. They emanate from behind the curtains of the other bed. Nurse Devine returns the syringe to the tray, gathers her things and pads silently around Mead's bed to Drummond's bed. With her free hand, she opens the curtains a little and stares in. When Nurse Devine draws the curtains, Barbara frowns at Nurse Devine, holds a cautioning finger to her lips and draws the curtains closed again. Nurse Devine, carrying her porcelain tray, exits. He heads for the Nurses' Station as Nurse Devine comes down the of the room into the delicious silence of the... Dr. Mallory can only stare at her numbly. He turns and stares numbly at Mr. Sloan. Dr. Mallory finally explodes. Mrs. Christie stares down at the face of the dead patient on the table, who has had her chest spread wide open so that the organs are exposed. He picks up the suit lying on the bed. His eyes are caught by a white doctor's uniform hanging in the armoire along with the suits and overcoats of the two patients in the room. He bends over to peer at the nameplate over the breast pocket. He turns to her again. They both look away. She gathers her raincoat and goes. Bock follows her out into the... Barbara has continued walking. Bock starts to follow her. Bock turns back to Lagerman. Barbara is disappearing into an elevator. Bock starts after her, then turns back to Lagerman. They hurry down the corridor to the elevators. Elevator doors open. A nurse and visitor get out. Bock and Lagerman go into... The elevator stops at the seventh floor. The doors open and Bock and Lagerman stroll into... In the background, the orderly and aid finish tucking in William Mead and exit, wheeling their creaking stretcher out. The room is shockingly silent. Bock goes to the window and frowns in thought. HOLD ACROSS the patient Drummond, on Bock in the background at the window with his back to us. Suddenly, Drummond's eyes open. He lies rigid, his eyes staring dementedly into the air above him. Slowly, his left hand reaches out and carefully withdraws the catheter from his bladder, lays it on the white sheet beside him, and silently reaches over to withdraw the I.V. needle from his right arm. He lets the needle dangle, dripping

WHAT WAS DR. BOCK'S RELATIONSHIP WITH HIS WIFE?

SHE LEFT HIM

the unoccupied bed, and the scene ends looking ACROSS the sleeping profile of THE PATIENT in the other bed as Schaefer and his girl thump away at each other with much creaking of springs, moans, groans, giggles and the white-limbed patterns of fornication. Schaefer smiles, grunts, sleeps on. NURSE'S P.O.V.: Intern Dr. Schaefer is lying on this bed, rigid, eyes dilated, pupils staring unseeing. An I.V. tube sticks out of his naked right arm. Nurse Perez doesn't quite know what to make of the fact that Dr. Schaefer is lying on that bed with an I.V. tube sticking out of him looking dead. Frowning, she reaches out a tentative hand to shake his naked shoulder. There is, of course, no response. A terrible suspicion enters Nurse Perez's mind, and she closes her eyes and sighs a long shuddering sigh. Then she opens her eyes and, with a second and briefer sigh, reaches for Schaefer's neck to take his pulse. Clearly, the result is not encouraging. She sighs another short sigh and regards Schaefer's unblinking, dilated pupils. It's all a bit too much for her; she shuffles to the window and stares out into the gray morning where things are a little more comprehensible. Once again, she returns to the bed, regards Schaefer's death mask. She raises the bedsheet and, for one short but appreciative moment, considers Schaefer's naked body. She lets the bedsheet carefully down. She sighs again. She sighs, turns and leaves the room. With a short, irritable sigh, Mrs. Reardon abandons her paperwork and heads down the west corridor, followed by Nurses Perez and Rivers. CAMERA TRACKS as Mrs. Reardon turns to Nurse Rivers. DR. HERBERT BOCK, 53 years old, a large man, bulky, disheveled, apparently fell asleep in a chair while watching television the night before. The Room area to lean into the Supervisor's Office. The THIRD NURSE leans back into the Supervisor's Office to relay this information. This is apparently good news, for we hear someone saying An orderly rumbles by with an E.K.G. machine. O.R. Nursing Supervisor DOROTHY KIMBALL, a pleasant lady in her late thirties, leans out of her office to speak to one of the lounging orderlies. The orderly detaches himself from his cronies and exits. It is into this atmosphere of subdued febrility that William Mead is wheeled. Indeed, a stretcher is being wheeled out of the Holding Room. The patient is sedated and covered. As the orderly wheels her past CAMERA, we may recognize the pale, sleeping profile of Miss Campanella, the nurse who had been coshed with a sandbag not many scenes ago. A CIRCULATING NURSE comes through the glass doors, examines the chart dangling from the stretcher. The orderly wheels the silent Miss Campanella off to Operating Room Three, as Dr. Welbeck, in his natty blue suit, carrying his camel coat, turns in from the outer corridor and examines the blackboard. He goes back to... The anesthesiologist, DR. CHU, injects pentathol in the I.V. tube. The RESIDENT ANESTHESIOLOGIST trundles over the oxygen tank, takes the hypodermic syringe from Dr. Chu, who now applies the oxygen mask to the enmarbled profile of the patient. He studies the gauges and equipment around him at the head of the operating table. The room galvanizes into the swift, silent activity of a chest massage. Dr. Mallory, standing and stretching in the back of the room, turns and moves toward the off-screen patient. He begins a vigorous rhythmic massage of the patient's rib cage over the heart. Dr. Mallory thumps the patient's chest hard with his fist, and the others, likewise, go to work. The scrub nurse is applying electrode paste to the defibrillators. Dr. Mallory yanks the sheets and hospital shirt off the patient and begins very rigorous massage of the exposed ribs; we can hear one rib crack. Dr. Chu, who has been inserting some suprel and bicarbonate into the tube of the patient's I.V., is frowning at her rigid, white-capped face. He leans over to check the E.K.G. readings. Mallory straddles the patient. He's doing heavy heart massage. Dr. Chu pushes back, the operating cap on the patient's head, revealing jet-black hair. Mallory starts to massage again. Dr. Chu stares blankly at the patient's face, then looks up at the sweating surgeon, perched on the operating table, rhythmically crushing away at the patient's rib cage. Dr. Mallory, now pausing for a moment, looks up. He is beaded with sweat. He massages away. Another rib cracks. Mrs. Christie's electric pocket-pager BEEPS. Miss McGuire leans in from the secretaries' office. She hangs up, stands, goes out into... Apparently, none of these three. Mrs. Christie turns in from the outer corridor. Normal Operating Room activity flows by: patients wheeled to and from their various surgeries, surgeons checking the blackboard, staff doctors, orderlies keeping the noise level low but steady. Hitchcock shrugs helplessly. Mrs. Kimball, Mrs. Christie, Hitchcock and Sloan push through the glass doors to the crossroads of the operating rooms. Through each window, we see operating crews hacking away. They gather in anticipation outside O.R. Three and peer over each other's shoulders into the room where the operating crew is hunched over the open-heart massage. The masked circulating nurse looks up, notices the audience at the door, and gives a hopeless shrug. During this maelstrom, the phone at Mead's elbow RINGS. Mead answers it, listens, nods, returns the receiver, stand and slips out on the phones. The triage nurse takes the history of the first in a line of five people seeking admission even as she answers her phone. We watch Miss Aronovici and the other nurse and Dr. Spezio and his two interns, the two attendants -- all busy with one patient or another. ACROSS Drummond, white-uniformed, standing in the back against the filing cabinets and linens, watching the the new patients trickle and crowd in. At the Admitting Desk, a MAN in his forties is being signed in by a uniformed cop. CAMERA JUST STARES at the pageant of pain. They hurry into the Admitting Room past a nurse and into the... On screen we continue watching the scene of the overdose case treatment, as the live-action sound in the room fades behind Drummond's tale. REACTION SHOT of Drummond staring at this ceaseless panorama of pain, tears streaking down his cheeks. Drummond turns to the voice. CAMERA PULLS BACK to include the man who had been brought into the E.R. by a uniformed cop. PAN SLOWLY to Drummond who stares at the Nameless Man. In BACKGROUND the door opens and Mrs. Cushing, the lady from accounting, enters. She calls out in her annoying voice from a chart. Bock holds Drummond's coat and hat and crosses to take his arm. He finds the entranced Drummond as rigid as a statue. They both hurry out of the room. Drummond remains enmarbled in his trance. CAMERA SUDDENLY MOVES DOWN to William Mead, whose eyes now open; he has heard it all. In background, Drummond, suddenly released from his catatonic trance, heads for the armoire and extracts the white trousers of Dr. Schaefer's uniform. He puts them on, tucking in the tails of his hospital shift. He notices William Mead staring at him. William Mead storms over to Miss Lebow. He strides, followed by Dr. Lagerman, into... The phone RINGS. Bock seizes it. This gives Bock pause. He blinks at Lagerman. Schaefer's naked white cadaver is stretched out on an operating table. He has been opened up and all his vital organs are being excised. It's bloody. The autopsy is being performed by DR. BREWSTER, the Resident in Pathology, dressed in surgical scrub. He knocks on the glass window of the door separating the laboratory from the operating room. Dr. Brewster turns from his gory chore. Bock makes a gesture saying, "How much longer?" Brewster raises ten blood-drenched rubber-gloved fingers. Bock turns and shuffles across the lab for the door out. He goes down... Mrs. Dunne nods. Nurse Devine makes her way silently down the sleeping doors to... Mead sleeps on. Expressionlessly, Nurse Devine extracts Mead's right arm from under the sheets, wets a swab with alcohol and rubs down the vein. The needle slides into Mead's vein. OVER THIS, we begin to hear a distant sibilant HISSING, indistinct like the leakage of a bad heart. There is also an occasional distinctly human but not quite civilized sound. CAMERA PULLS BACK SLOWLY to Nurse Devine withdrawing the needle, looking up, for she too has heard the soft, strange sounds. They emanate from behind the curtains of the other bed. Nurse Devine returns the syringe to the tray, gathers her things and pads silently around Mead's bed to Drummond's bed. With her free hand, she opens the curtains a little and stares in. When Nurse Devine draws the curtains, Barbara frowns at Nurse Devine, holds a cautioning finger to her lips and draws the curtains closed again. Nurse Devine, carrying her porcelain tray, exits. He heads for the Nurses' Station as Nurse Devine comes down the

WHAT WERE THE HOSPITAL DEATHS OF TWO DOCTORS AND A NURSE ATTRIBUTED TO?

FAILURE TO PROVIDE ACCURATE TREATMENT

Room area to lean into the Supervisor's Office. The THIRD NURSE leans back into the Supervisor's Office to relay this information. This is apparently good news, for we hear someone saying An orderly rumbles by with an E.K.G. machine. O.R. Nursing Supervisor DOROTHY KIMBALL, a pleasant lady in her late thirties, leans out of her office to speak to one of the lounging orderlies. The orderly detaches himself from his cronies and exits. It is into this atmosphere of subdued febrility that William Mead is wheeled. Indeed, a stretcher is being wheeled out of the Holding Room. The patient is sedated and covered. As the orderly wheels her past CAMERA, we may recognize the pale, sleeping profile of Miss Campanella, the nurse who had been coshed with a sandbag not many scenes ago. A CIRCULATING NURSE comes through the glass doors, examines the chart dangling from the stretcher. The orderly wheels the silent Miss Campanella off to Operating Room Three, as Dr. Welbeck, in his natty blue suit, carrying his camel coat, turns in from the outer corridor and examines the blackboard. He goes back to... The anesthesiologist, DR. CHU, injects pentathol in the I.V. tube. The RESIDENT ANESTHESIOLOGIST trundles over the oxygen tank, takes the hypodermic syringe from Dr. Chu, who now applies the oxygen mask to the enmarbled profile of the patient. He studies the gauges and equipment around him at the head of the operating table. The room galvanizes into the swift, silent activity of a chest massage. Dr. Mallory, standing and stretching in the back of the room, turns and moves toward the off-screen patient. He begins a vigorous rhythmic massage of the patient's rib cage over the heart. Dr. Mallory thumps the patient's chest hard with his fist, and the others, likewise, go to work. on the phones. The triage nurse takes the history of the first in a line of five people seeking admission even as she answers her phone. We watch Miss Aronovici and the other nurse and Dr. Spezio and his two interns, the two attendants -- all busy with one patient or another. ACROSS Drummond, white-uniformed, standing in the back against the filing cabinets and linens, watching the the new patients trickle and crowd in. At the Admitting Desk, a MAN in his forties is being signed in by a uniformed cop. CAMERA JUST STARES at the pageant of pain. They hurry into the Admitting Room past a nurse and into the... On screen we continue watching the scene of the overdose case treatment, as the live-action sound in the room fades behind Drummond's tale. REACTION SHOT of Drummond staring at this ceaseless panorama of pain, tears streaking down his cheeks. Drummond turns to the voice. CAMERA PULLS BACK to include the man who had been brought into the E.R. by a uniformed cop. PAN SLOWLY to Drummond who stares at the Nameless Man. In BACKGROUND the door opens and Mrs. Cushing, the lady from accounting, enters. She calls out in her annoying voice from a chart. Bock holds Drummond's coat and hat and crosses to take his arm. He finds the entranced Drummond as rigid as a statue. They both hurry out of the room. Drummond remains enmarbled in his trance. CAMERA SUDDENLY MOVES DOWN to William Mead, whose eyes now open; he has heard it all. In background, Drummond, suddenly released from his catatonic trance, heads for the armoire and extracts the white trousers of Dr. Schaefer's uniform. He puts them on, tucking in the tails of his hospital shift. He notices William Mead staring at him. William Mead The scrub nurse is applying electrode paste to the defibrillators. Dr. Mallory yanks the sheets and hospital shirt off the patient and begins very rigorous massage of the exposed ribs; we can hear one rib crack. Dr. Chu, who has been inserting some suprel and bicarbonate into the tube of the patient's I.V., is frowning at her rigid, white-capped face. He leans over to check the E.K.G. readings. Mallory straddles the patient. He's doing heavy heart massage. Dr. Chu pushes back, the operating cap on the patient's head, revealing jet-black hair. Mallory starts to massage again. Dr. Chu stares blankly at the patient's face, then looks up at the sweating surgeon, perched on the operating table, rhythmically crushing away at the patient's rib cage. Dr. Mallory, now pausing for a moment, looks up. He is beaded with sweat. He massages away. Another rib cracks. Mrs. Christie's electric pocket-pager BEEPS. Miss McGuire leans in from the secretaries' office. She hangs up, stands, goes out into... Apparently, none of these three. Mrs. Christie turns in from the outer corridor. Normal Operating Room activity flows by: patients wheeled to and from their various surgeries, surgeons checking the blackboard, staff doctors, orderlies keeping the noise level low but steady. Hitchcock shrugs helplessly. Mrs. Kimball, Mrs. Christie, Hitchcock and Sloan push through the glass doors to the crossroads of the operating rooms. Through each window, we see operating crews hacking away. They gather in anticipation outside O.R. Three and peer over each other's shoulders into the room where the operating crew is hunched over the open-heart massage. The masked circulating nurse looks up, notices the audience at the door, and gives a hopeless shrug. During this maelstrom, the phone at Mead's elbow RINGS. Mead answers it, listens, nods, returns the receiver, stand and slips out the airway and the ambu tube into Welbeck's mouth and pumps in air by hand. Bock massages away. She follows Morse in as, from the lobby corner, two technicians come racing a max cart and an I.V. stand before them. Behind them, a bewildered Hitchcock moves into view, trying to determine what's going on. Hitchcock looks down at the sheeted figure hunched on the bed parked in the hallway and slowly pulls the sheet off his head. William Mead stares up at him like a hunted animal. Hitchcock covers Mead's head again. If we can see anything of Welbeck through other bodies, we notice almost all his clothes have been ripped off his body. Dr. Loomis replaces Barbara. The two nursing supervisors have been getting the max cart ready, snapping up the gateleg-footrest and attaching the I.V. tube to the oxygen jar, and that to the ambu bag. Drs. Loomis, Bock and Morse struggle to lift the the nearly naked dead weight of Dr. Welbeck up from the floor and onto the max cart. Dr. Morse has picked up Drummond's chart from the bed where Welbeck had left it. CLOSE-UP of Bock trying to hoist Welbeck and looking up slowly. Bock cocks his head to him. Bock looks across to Barbara, now helping out at the max cart. She looks back at Bock. She shrugs. He shrugs. They exchange a smile. Straining under the effort, the three doctors get Welbeck off the floor. Mrs. Donovan exits into... Hitchcock silently thanks God. Welbeck's body is finally on the max cart. Nurses and doctors converge on him. Dr. Loomis sets about intubating Welbeck, and the Nursing Supervisor begins clamping the metal bands of the E.K.G. machine on each of Welbeck's extremities. While all this goes on, Bock and Barbara have picked up onto the bed. Carefully, he twists out from under his sheet, swings his legs over the side of the bed and sits up. REVERSE ACROSS Bock at the window, pondering. With a swift lash of movement, the double tubes of a stethoscope are whipped over his head and tightened around his throat. CLOSE TWO SHOT of Bock being strangled, Drummond's face frozen in bland dementia behind him. Drummond pauses in his strangling and, releasing the poor man altogether, turns to his daughter in the doorway. CAMERA DOLLIES to include all three -- Bock recuperating; Drummond staring madly; and Barbara infuriated with her father. Drummond, abashed, stands there, a scolded schoolboy, a rawboned figure in a hospital shift, a stethoscope dangling from his right hand. The old man is slipping out of his clothes to expose a thin little body in a torn nightshirt. The old man sits back, wheezing a little. Nurse Chile smiles nicely at him and takes her leave. For a moment, Drummond lies rigidly on his bed, staring dully into the air and the old man sits with his hunched back to us. The room is silent except for his rheumy wheeze. After a moment, the old man rises and goes to the washbasin and, with some wheezing, spits into it. He shuffles back to bed. Dr. Schaefer comes into the room with a professional smile and the patient Guernsey's chart. Schaefer perches on the bed beside Guernsey and begins to take his history. CLOSE-UP of Drummond in deep shadow shows him sleeping. Drummond's eyes open and roll to the direction of the voice. DRUMMOND'S P.O.V.: Guernsey, dressed only in his hospital shift, is shuffling up and down the aisle of the room, hands clasped behind his back like a Mittel-European intellectual, head hunched forward -- a

WHAT WERE THE DEMANDS OF THE ANNEXATION PROTESTORS?

TO FIND ADEQUATE HOUSING FOR THE CURRENT APARTMENT BUILDING'S RESIDENTS

the unoccupied bed, and the scene ends looking ACROSS the sleeping profile of THE PATIENT in the other bed as Schaefer and his girl thump away at each other with much creaking of springs, moans, groans, giggles and the white-limbed patterns of fornication. Schaefer smiles, grunts, sleeps on. NURSE'S P.O.V.: Intern Dr. Schaefer is lying on this bed, rigid, eyes dilated, pupils staring unseeing. An I.V. tube sticks out of his naked right arm. Nurse Perez doesn't quite know what to make of the fact that Dr. Schaefer is lying on that bed with an I.V. tube sticking out of him looking dead. Frowning, she reaches out a tentative hand to shake his naked shoulder. There is, of course, no response. A terrible suspicion enters Nurse Perez's mind, and she closes her eyes and sighs a long shuddering sigh. Then she opens her eyes and, with a second and briefer sigh, reaches for Schaefer's neck to take his pulse. Clearly, the result is not encouraging. She sighs another short sigh and regards Schaefer's unblinking, dilated pupils. It's all a bit too much for her; she shuffles to the window and stares out into the gray morning where things are a little more comprehensible. Once again, she returns to the bed, regards Schaefer's death mask. She raises the bedsheet and, for one short but appreciative moment, considers Schaefer's naked body. She lets the bedsheet carefully down. She sighs again. She sighs, turns and leaves the room. With a short, irritable sigh, Mrs. Reardon abandons her paperwork and heads down the west corridor, followed by Nurses Perez and Rivers. CAMERA TRACKS as Mrs. Reardon turns to Nurse Rivers. DR. HERBERT BOCK, 53 years old, a large man, bulky, disheveled, apparently fell asleep in a chair while watching television the night before. The the airway and the ambu tube into Welbeck's mouth and pumps in air by hand. Bock massages away. She follows Morse in as, from the lobby corner, two technicians come racing a max cart and an I.V. stand before them. Behind them, a bewildered Hitchcock moves into view, trying to determine what's going on. Hitchcock looks down at the sheeted figure hunched on the bed parked in the hallway and slowly pulls the sheet off his head. William Mead stares up at him like a hunted animal. Hitchcock covers Mead's head again. If we can see anything of Welbeck through other bodies, we notice almost all his clothes have been ripped off his body. Dr. Loomis replaces Barbara. The two nursing supervisors have been getting the max cart ready, snapping up the gateleg-footrest and attaching the I.V. tube to the oxygen jar, and that to the ambu bag. Drs. Loomis, Bock and Morse struggle to lift the the nearly naked dead weight of Dr. Welbeck up from the floor and onto the max cart. Dr. Morse has picked up Drummond's chart from the bed where Welbeck had left it. CLOSE-UP of Bock trying to hoist Welbeck and looking up slowly. Bock cocks his head to him. Bock looks across to Barbara, now helping out at the max cart. She looks back at Bock. She shrugs. He shrugs. They exchange a smile. Straining under the effort, the three doctors get Welbeck off the floor. Mrs. Donovan exits into... Hitchcock silently thanks God. Welbeck's body is finally on the max cart. Nurses and doctors converge on him. Dr. Loomis sets about intubating Welbeck, and the Nursing Supervisor begins clamping the metal bands of the E.K.G. machine on each of Welbeck's extremities. While all this goes on, Bock and Barbara have picked up storms over to Miss Lebow. He strides, followed by Dr. Lagerman, into... The phone RINGS. Bock seizes it. This gives Bock pause. He blinks at Lagerman. Schaefer's naked white cadaver is stretched out on an operating table. He has been opened up and all his vital organs are being excised. It's bloody. The autopsy is being performed by DR. BREWSTER, the Resident in Pathology, dressed in surgical scrub. He knocks on the glass window of the door separating the laboratory from the operating room. Dr. Brewster turns from his gory chore. Bock makes a gesture saying, "How much longer?" Brewster raises ten blood-drenched rubber-gloved fingers. Bock turns and shuffles across the lab for the door out. He goes down... Mrs. Dunne nods. Nurse Devine makes her way silently down the sleeping doors to... Mead sleeps on. Expressionlessly, Nurse Devine extracts Mead's right arm from under the sheets, wets a swab with alcohol and rubs down the vein. The needle slides into Mead's vein. OVER THIS, we begin to hear a distant sibilant HISSING, indistinct like the leakage of a bad heart. There is also an occasional distinctly human but not quite civilized sound. CAMERA PULLS BACK SLOWLY to Nurse Devine withdrawing the needle, looking up, for she too has heard the soft, strange sounds. They emanate from behind the curtains of the other bed. Nurse Devine returns the syringe to the tray, gathers her things and pads silently around Mead's bed to Drummond's bed. With her free hand, she opens the curtains a little and stares in. When Nurse Devine draws the curtains, Barbara frowns at Nurse Devine, holds a cautioning finger to her lips and draws the curtains closed again. Nurse Devine, carrying her porcelain tray, exits. He heads for the Nurses' Station as Nurse Devine comes down the exits into... A guttural noise indicates yes. Miss Lebow pulls up a chair, opens her folder. She places a sheet of paper on the desk in front of Bock. He tries to give his attention to it. Bock obviously isn't up to all this. He waves a limp hand to stop Miss Lebow's morning report. He lumbers across the room and out into... The doctor is obviously in. He can be seen through the open door sitting at his desk writing in a notebook. Bock leans in. Bock goes in, closes the door behind himself. Indeed, he does not. He is horrified by the fact his eyes are wet and he is verging on tears. He turns away quickly. He starts for the door. Before Einhorn can say a word, he slips away and disappears into his own office. A door CLICKS open behind him, and without looking up, he waves briefly to whoever has entered. CAMERA DOLLIES to FULL SHOT of Ives frowning over his notes. We are suddenly conscious of a white-uniformed presence behind him. We know it's medical personnel, but we can't see the face. Ives starts to turn to the presence behind him, when suddenly a small hospital sandbag is whipped down on his head, and he slumps forward, his forehead thumping against the black surface of the lab table. The doctors move off toward the solarium on the east corridor overlooking the river. They pass a curious quartet of people consisting of a very handsome YOUNG WOMAN in her late twenties in an out-of-fashion miniskirt (She has great legs, long and tanned.); an ELDERLY MAN, uncomfortable in city clothes and unmistakably an INDIAN; a tall overcoated man in his forties wearing a MINISTER's white collar; and a DISTINGUISHED MAN dressed in fashionable gray who is on the phones. The triage nurse takes the history of the first in a line of five people seeking admission even as she answers her phone. We watch Miss Aronovici and the other nurse and Dr. Spezio and his two interns, the two attendants -- all busy with one patient or another. ACROSS Drummond, white-uniformed, standing in the back against the filing cabinets and linens, watching the the new patients trickle and crowd in. At the Admitting Desk, a MAN in his forties is being signed in by a uniformed cop. CAMERA JUST STARES at the pageant of pain. They hurry into the Admitting Room past a nurse and into the... On screen we continue watching the scene of the overdose case treatment, as the live-action sound in the room fades behind Drummond's tale. REACTION SHOT of Drummond staring at this ceaseless panorama of pain, tears streaking down his cheeks. Drummond turns to the voice. CAMERA PULLS BACK to include the man who had been brought into the E.R. by a uniformed cop. PAN SLOWLY to Drummond who stares at the Nameless Man. In BACKGROUND the door opens and Mrs. Cushing, the lady from accounting, enters. She calls out in her annoying voice from a chart. Bock holds Drummond's coat and hat and crosses to take his arm. He finds the entranced Drummond as rigid as a statue. They both hurry out of the room. Drummond remains enmarbled in his trance. CAMERA SUDDENLY MOVES DOWN to William Mead, whose eyes now open; he has heard it all. In background, Drummond, suddenly released from his catatonic trance, heads for the armoire and extracts the white trousers of Dr. Schaefer's uniform. He puts them on, tucking in the tails of his hospital shift. He notices William Mead staring at him. William Mead

HOW DO BARBARA DRUMMOND AND DR BOCK MEET?

WHEN SHE BRINGS IN HER FATHER FROM MEXICO FOR TREATMENT AT THE HOSPITAL.